


Needs Must

by melusin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, BDSM, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-05
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-04-19 04:57:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 41,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4733522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melusin/pseuds/melusin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Disclaimer:  All characters depicted belong to JK Rowling.  I make no money from my scribblings - more's the pity.</p>
<p>Summary: Human sexuality covers a wide spectrum.  Most of us fit into a very small part of it.  This is a story about two people who don't.  A BDSM love story. SS/HG.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Session: Hermione

**Author's Note:**

> This is very much a work in progress, which I am placing here for safe-keeping, and is subject to revision.

He stands before me, dressed in his black travelling cloak. If he has followed my instructions, that is all he is wearing – apart from his boots, of course. It has taken weeks for me to get him this far; he trusts no one, and I can hardly blame him. I know who he is: my former teacher, Death Eater, spy, murderer – many things, but basically just a man; a man with needs.

He stands head bowed respectfully, awaiting my command. I let the tension build.

Since Lucius Malfoy scarred me for life ten years ago, I wear a glamour – partly from vanity and partly to disguise my identity. I was never beautiful, but I miss my face. If he knew who I was, this enigma before me, I doubt he would be here, calmly awaiting his fate.

‘Remove your cloak,’ I say. 

He reaches for the clasp. A moment’s hesitation…

‘If you don’t want to do this, you know where the door is.’

He unfastens his cloak and takes it off. He folds it neatly on the chair provided.

‘And your boots.’ 

He complies.

And now he is standing there, naked, hands behind his back, eyes lowered. He is trembling, waiting for me to approve of him – or not as the case may be.

I make him wait. He wants this humiliation; needs it. I have seen it all before. Men who suffered abysmal childhoods, beaten and abused during their formative years; ridiculed by women. Their stories are all different, but they share the same anguish. It is laughably simple, really. Whatever they do, whatever they accomplish in life, they never feel good enough, therefore they are not worthy of praise or of love, only pain; they want punishment over and over again for what crime God only knows. But I know Severus Snape. I know his demons. He thinks he is an abomination on the face of the Earth, but I know he is nothing of the kind. He is the bravest man I have ever met; I would not be alive if it were not for him, and yet I will give him what he requires of me. I will give him pain, humiliation and punishment for his crimes, real and imagined, but I will give him something I have never bestowed on any other sub. I will give him peace.

I contemplate his body for the first time. His skin looks almost deathly white in the candlelight, but I find this attractive. He is like a piece of fine porcelain, his black hair contrasting sharply with his pallor. However, much to my annoyance, he has not removed his body hair as instructed in my owl. He must know he will be punished for this error which, I assume, is why he has defied me. I conclude this is some kind of test. Very well, two can play at that game.

I stare at his cock and sigh, feigning disappointment. It stands proud from his body, long and not overly thick. It is in proportion to the rest of him, but unlike the rest of his skin it is a dark rose colour. The veins are prominent. I hope this is not as a result of the cock-ring he is wearing and enquire if it is too tight. He assures me it is not. I keep staring at him as if I am still undecided about letting him stay. He is undeniably beautiful in his nakedness and submission, although I know he thinks he is as ugly as sin. I let him suffer under my scrutiny.

Finally, I walk to my chair, sit down and cross my legs. ‘You may approach me,’ I say.

The sigh of relief is audible. Gracefully, he falls to his knees and crawls towards me. Even in this, he is elegance personified. As he draws near to my feet, I order him to kiss my boots. This he does with due reverence and gratitude.

‘Thank you, Mistress Roxanne.’

I ignore him and stand up. I move behind him to take a good look at his arse, deciding on his punishment.

‘Repeat the instructions I sent you in my owl.’

‘I was to come here no later than 5 o’clock wearing only a cloak, my boots and a cock-ring, Mistress.’

‘And,’ I say, reaching for my riding crop, ‘what else?’

He professes ignorance.

‘You are trying my patience.’

‘I-I was to remove all my body hair, Mistress.’

‘But, you haven’t, have you?’ I say, circling him and swishing the crop. ‘Did you not do it, perhaps, in the hope that I may punish you?’

He gasps as I swish the crop close to his ear.

‘Yes, Mistress.’

‘And, so I shall, if only for your impudence. But… maybe not _quite_ in the way you would like. Stand up.’

A quick _swish and flick_ and he is bound by ropes, stretched out on a St Andrew ’s cross. I pass my wand in front of his face, and he recoils from it. I laugh at this little display of fear then perform a shaving spell on his underarms, legs and the smattering of hairs around his nipples. Apart from the thatch around his crotch, he is not a hairy man.

‘You know your safe words?’ I ask.

‘Yes, Mistress.’

‘Excellent. Now,’ I say, ‘What shall we do about all this?’ I catch hold of a couple of hairs near the base of his cock and pull. 

He yelps.

‘Shall I get a pair of tweezers and pull them out one by one, hmm?’ I yank hard on some hair on his balls. ‘Would you like that?’

He grits his teeth, but a moan escapes.

‘I asked you a question, you worthless piece of shit.’ I keep pulling.

‘No, Mistress, please…no.’

I wind some hairs around my finger. He inhales expectantly. I wait for him to relax before plucking them out. Tears are forming in his eyes.

‘When I tell you to do something, you do it. Understand?’ I walk behind him.

‘Yes.’

_Thwack._ My riding crop makes contact with his arse.

‘Yes, what?’

‘Yes, Mistress.’

‘Better.’ 

I Summon a pair of scissors and start trimming his pubes. He watches me nervously.

‘Look away, or I shall blindfold you.’

He does as he’s told, but he finds it difficult not to tremble as the scissors get closer to his balls.

Once I am satisfied I have trimmed as much as possible, I Summon some shaving cream and a cut throat razor. He realises what’s coming next.

‘Thought I’d do it with a Charm, didn’t you?’ I say, ‘Well, it just goes to show how wrong you can be. Maybe next time, you won’t be so eager to ignore my instructions.’

I soap him up and commence shaving him. If it weren’t for the ropes, I doubt his legs would hold him. He is shaking now, and I am being extremely careful not to cut him. Sweat is running down his chest in his effort to remain completely still. He is also aroused by the experience; his cock is hard and straining against the confines of the cock-ring. I am careful to avoid touching it as I continue to scrape away. He moans, and I tell him to be quiet.

Once finished, I clean him up and survey my handiwork.

‘Much better,’ I say. ‘I like to be able to see my toys before I play with them. You are never to hide them from me again.’ I grab his balls and twist. ‘Do I make myself clear?’

He moans in pain and pleasure. ‘Yes, Mistress. Perfectly.’

‘Good. Now, for creating unnecessary work for me, I am going to give you thirty with the crop. You will count.’

I banish the cross so that he is suspended only by the ropes. He stands on his toes at full stretch, muscles taut from the exertion. He reminds me of a thoroughbred stallion. I want to stroke him, calm him, which is unusual for me as I always keep any physical contact to a bare minimum. It is a pleasure I refuse to grant him, so I must, therefore, deny my own. Instead, I begin to strike his buttocks, laying down a pattern. Soon, his lily-white arse has some lovely red stripes on it, but he takes his punishment almost silently. Once I have finished, he thanks me. I release the ropes and he falls to his knees, panting.

‘Lean forward and spread your buttocks.’ 

He reaches behind him and pulls his cheeks apart. I perform a shaving spell on the remaining hair around his anus and perineum.

‘Do not move.’ I leave him like that while I search out some lubricant and a butt plug. He does not attempt to watch what I am doing. The first thing he knows is when I press a lubed finger against his anus. He jumps.

‘Relax.’ I work a finger inside, then two. ‘Tell me, sub severus, have you ever been buggered?'

‘No, Mistress,’ he says through clenched teeth.

I laugh. ‘Well, guess what?’ 

He grunts in discomfort as I work the plug into his tight arse. When it’s in as far as it’ll go, I leave him kneeling there and go back to my chair. I sit a while watching him struggle with his humiliation and embarrassment.

‘Come here.’

He crawls over to me again, and I tell him to sit up straight on his heels. I put the riding crop under his chin and lift his head up. Remembering what a superb Legilimens he is, I am careful to Occlude my mind before I look into his eyes.

‘When was the last time you had an orgasm?'

‘Ten days ago, Mistress.’

‘You have not masturbated, as I instructed, since then?’

‘No, Mistress. I have done as you asked.’

‘I see. You are willing to follow my instructions so long as you can pick and choose which ones. Is that it?’

He swallows but says nothing.

‘That,’ I say, ‘is not acceptable. I will not waste my time on scumbags like you who think they can do what the hell they please. You have disappointed me greatly.’

‘I am sorry I disobeyed you, Mistress. It will not happen again.’

‘No, it most assuredly will not.’

I sit back in my chair. ‘Remove the cock-ring and wank for me.’

He forgets himself and looks at me in astonishment.

‘Keep your eyes down – no, on second thoughts keep looking at me.’ I do not give him the comfort of averting his eyes as he grasps his cock. ‘Well, what are you waiting for? I gave you an order.’

He is clearly ashamed, and I laugh at him. It does not take long before he cries out and comes all over his hand.

I look at him in disgust, reach for my wand and clean him up.

‘You may leave,’ I say.

‘Mistress?’

‘I am cutting this session short. This is your punishment for your disobedience.’ I inspect my finger nails. ‘However, I am feeling generous. You may return at the same time next week.’ 

The look on his face is priceless, but he hides it quickly and moves towards the door.

‘And,’ I continue, ‘you are to wear that plug day and night, removing it only to defecate. Understand?’

‘Yes, Mistress.’

‘Good. If you disobey me again, there will not be a third time. I want you to be perfectly clear on this.’

He nods, putting on his cloak. ‘I will not make the same mistake again, Mistress.’

I wave my hand, dismissively.

He bows and Disapparates.


	2. The Interview: Severus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus meets Mistress Roxanne for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks go to my two angels, Septentrion and Darkheartwalsh for their beta work, encouragement and support.

‘I used to have a recurring dream, during my early years as a Death Eater,’ I began. ‘In it, I would be stumbling down Diagon Alley stark naked, apart from a leather collar around my neck, being pursued and… flogged by persons unknown. People were pointing and laughing and…and yelling words of encouragement to my persecutors as I vainly tried to cover myself. I was distressed, looking for something or someone – needing protection. The thing I remember most was how… aroused I was by the whole thing – the pain, the humiliation, the nakedness – everything. I would always wake up painfully erect and sometimes… sometimes I would…would have–’

‘Ejaculated,’ she said helpfully.

‘Yes. Quite.’ I sipped the tea she had provided, still not believing I was having this conversation.

‘I am not a psychiatrist, Professor Snape, but I can assure you that the feelings you have are not uncommon.’ The woman calling herself Mistress Roxanne smiled at me.

It has been a long journey to this unassuming flat overlooking the less salubrious end of Diagon Alley. I am not entirely sure how it began, but she encourages me to think back. If there is one thing I have resolved, it is to be honest with her. It has not been easy for me to admit, even to myself, this …need to be dominated, this… ache that I have, but now that I have recognised it – named it, if you will, then I am determined not to be embarrassed by it, at least not with her. It seems to be as much a part of me as… the colour of my hair or my eyes.

Ah, yes, my childhood. ‘Well,’ I say, ‘my mother was a strong woman, certainly. A typical, no nonsense northerner, and a witch, naturally. My father adored her. There were times when I saw her deal with him after he’d had one too many down the pub… but, she never laid a hand on me–’ 

‘You always felt safe with her,’ she interrupts.

 

‘Yes, always,’ I reply. ‘Dad, however… well, let’s just say he ignored me as much as possible. Sometimes, it was like I did not exist. The only time he ever paid me any attention was when I misbehaved. Then, he would shout or slap me...’ I pause remembering something. ‘And, sometimes,’ I say softly, ‘he would take his belt to me.’

Mistress Roxanne says nothing. Her face is expressionless. I realised, as soon as I saw her, that she was wearing some kind of glamour. I do not know why, and it is not my place to ask. It has also crossed my mind, that in all likelihood, I was once her teacher. She certainly knows me – if only by reputation. Strangely, this does not seem to bother me as I confess my darkest secrets to this rather lovely woman. If I am to pursue this journey I have begun, then I have to trust someone to guide me on the way, and I think that I may have found that someone in Mistress Roxanne. So far, she has neither ridiculed nor judged me. She is being sympathetic and understanding and I feel at ease in her presence. A weight seems to be lifting from my shoulders. The thought occurs to me that she may have put something in the tea.

I try again. ‘I went through a… phase when I would behave badly, just to attract my father’s attention. He would chase me around the house, yelling at me to ‘come and take my punishment like a man.’ I have to confess to feeling a certain thrill from running from him, which only served to make him even more furious when he got hold of me. And I-I … Gods…’

‘It’s all right, Professor,’ she says. ‘Take your time.’

‘I am sorry. I am not accustomed to talking about such… private matters.’

‘I appreciate that, but it is important for you to recognise where your feelings come from. I need to know too, so I can help you.’

I nod and struggle with a memory I thought I had buried forever. ‘I suppose I came to perceive the beatings my father gave me as an expression of his love, and I wanted more. I yearned for that little frisson of anticipation I always felt when he wrapped the end of his belt around his hand and told me to bend over.’ I sip the tea, building up the courage to say what I must. ‘Then, I suppose I was about nine or ten – approaching puberty anyway – a burst of spontaneous magic from me set the kitchen on fire. It was not deliberate, but that did not let me off the beating and-and while he was doing it, I had my first… erection.’

‘Did he see it?’

‘Yes.’ I look away remembering my shame and my father’s embarrassment. ‘He always pulled my shorts down before he beat me.’ I stop again. I do not know if I can do this.

‘What happened?’

I swallow hard. ‘I-I was bewildered. Suddenly, there was this-this _thing_ … and I-I couldn’t help it. I touched myself.’

She sighs. ‘What did your father do?’

‘He called me a filthy little bastard and told me to get out of his sight.’

‘Did he ever beat you like that again?’

I shake my head. ‘No, never again.’

‘So,’ she says, ‘before you even knew what sex was, you thought that a normal physical reaction was something… dirty.’

‘It would seem so,’ I reply. I had not given it any real consideration before today.

‘Did it affect your ability to masturbate?’

I choke on my tea. ‘I have always considered it a… guilty pleasure.’ I manage to say.

‘You feel the need, but resist the urge as long as possible then feel bad about it after the event?’

I am shocked that she has so easily surmised this about me. ‘Yes.’ My voice is barely above a whisper.

She worries her bottom lip and frowns. Somewhere, at the back of my mind another memory awakens.

‘Professor,’ she says finally, ‘most people go though life seeking pleasure and avoiding pain. What they fail to realise is that they are two halves of the same coin. You, however, learned at a very young age to associate pain not just with pleasure, but also with love. Your sexual awakening, shall we say, was also rather unfortunate–’

I snort at that.

‘ –coupled as it was with, as you saw it, the withdrawal of your father’s physical expression of his love for you. So, what happened after that?’

I trawl through my memories, dragging up old heartaches and one bad experience after the other. I was not exactly popular with the girls at school, although I did fancy one or two of them, but my physical appearance ensured I was constantly rejected – laughed at even. Perversely, the ones who ridiculed me the most were the ones I desired the most. I begin to see how these experiences compounded my feelings of worthlessness.

‘… And then there was Lily Evans...' _My childhood sweetheart and, at one time, all I thought a woman should be._ 'She was kind, beautiful, intelligent – the sort of person who would light up a room with her personality, and amazingly, she returned my feelings. But, when we tried dating, nothing happened – and I mean, _nothing_ happened. I had no physical reaction to her at all.'

Mistress Roxanne nods. 'You had put her on a pedestal, but she did not live up to expectations.'

'Quite.' I am finding the astuteness of this woman more and more impressive. Is she an empath? 'However, it took many, many years for me to realise it. At the time, I suspected I might be queer, although I did not appear to be attracted to members of my own sex. So, where did that leave me? I spent hours worrying over that one, thinking I was some strange, asexual creature, until that is, the night I took the Dark Mark.’

‘What happened?’

‘Bellatrix Lestrange.’

Mistress Roxanne inhales sharply.

I feel my cock stir as I recall the night I lost my virginity. Bella looked at me, and I felt my soul burn. She knew what I wanted, all right, and she was more than happy to give it to me. I was beaten, humiliated, used and abused, and I loved every second of it. But that was the only time we had sex. She kept me dangling on a string after that, knowing she need only snap her fingers, and I would fall at her feet. I sigh, remembering the crazy bitch. Bellatrix was a force of nature, even if she was madder than a box of snakes, and for a long time, fool that I was, I would have done anything to have her use me again. 

‘Was there no one else?’

‘No one of any significance. But then, my time was taken up with… other things.’

She nods again and does not push me further on that score. ‘So, what brought you to me?’

That was another long story. I put my cup and saucer down. ‘Mistress Roxanne,’ I say, ‘I realised many moons ago that love was not for the likes of me, but I have only recently acknowledged that my sexual proclivities, as much as I would like to ignore their existence, are as valid as anyone else’s. Once I came to that realisation, I concluded, quite rapidly, that my best course of action would be to seek out a professional dominatrix as I did not think my chances of finding a willing, not to mention, discreet partner, to be that great.’

She does not contradict me. This does nothing for my self-confidence, but I continue regardless. ‘I made a lot of contacts in, shall we say, the lower echelons of society when I was a…Death Eater and spy for the Order. I decided to call in some favours in Knockturn Alley. To put it succinctly, your name kept coming up – one of the best they said, but almost impossible to get an interview with.’

‘Indeed. I rarely take on new submissives.’

She does not elaborate on this. ‘Submissives?’ I enquire. ‘Not slaves?’

‘Good Lord, no!’ She looks appalled at the very idea. ‘That would take up far too much of my time. If you want that, I’m afraid you will have to look elsewhere.’

‘I’m not sure if I do or not, to be perfectly honest.’

Mistress Roxanne regards me kindly. ‘A Master/Slave relationship is very much like a marriage. It requires total commitment from both parties, and the emotional investment is enormous. As a slave, your needs and desires would amount to nothing. You would exist purely to serve your mistress, receiving pain or pleasure only when and if she saw fit. The master – or mistress – is in total control of the slave’s life, making all his decisions for him – every minute of the day. I, for one, do not want that kind of responsibility. Contrary to popular belief, I do not want to spend my entire life walking about in thigh-high leather boots cracking a whip!’

My cock takes notice of that image. ‘Pity,’ I quip before I have the chance to stop myself.

She looks at me and laughs; a rich throaty laugh. I feel a pull in the pit of my stomach. I know this woman.

‘I can see I’m going to have my work cut out with you.’ She laughs again.

‘Does that mean you’re willing to take me on?’ I ask hopefully.

‘Yes,’ she replies, ‘but not yet. I will let you know when I have a vacancy.’

‘Oh.’ How disappointing. 'I see.'

Her smile is warm. ‘It will likely be only a few weeks. Between now and then we will correspond by owl. Always open the letters when you are alone. I shall set you little tasks, which I expect you to undertake. I will send you some reading material, too, so that you will know the basics of how to behave when we next meet. I normally only take on subs who have prior experience, and who already know the ropes – no pun intended. You have a lot of catching up to do. You should also know that I do not have sexual intercourse with my clients – ever.’

I was already aware of this and assure her that it does not bother me. My main purpose in this, my first real attempt at exploring my sexuality, is to learn how to be a good submissive.

‘Good. Then we know where we stand.’ I notice her put her hands across her lower abdomen in a defensive gesture. ‘Now, one last thing before you go. I would like you to give me some idea of the level of pain and humiliation you are prepared to tolerate.’ 

‘Well, nothing life threatening,’ I reply, wondering how I should answer this question. ‘I do not like the idea of breath control, for example, or anything to do with water. I like… whips and well, anything really – and leather, I like leather.’

She nods approvingly as I am saying this. ‘It is responsible of you to set safety limits - hard limits, we call them - but you do realise there are as many different views on what constitutes humiliation as there are people in the world? One man’s fetish is another man’s perversion, so to speak. You need to give me a bit more to work with.’

I am a bit mystified by this.

‘Well, for example,’ she says, ‘Do you want to dress up in women’s clothes and be told you’re a slut, or be a naughty schoolboy? Do you want me to dress up as a mediwitch and give you a medical examination? Do you want to be treated like a dog, or a horse? Would you like me to pee on you–?’

‘Good God, no.’ I am horrified at the last suggestion. ‘Why would anyone want such a thing?

‘Professor Snape,’ she sighs patiently, ‘you would be surprised at the things men have asked me to do to them over the years. There was one dear young man who was a closet transvestite and very much ashamed of the fact. He came to me wearing a pink bra and a pair of frilly knickers under his robe. I would tell him off for wearing his sister’s underwear, put him over my knee and spank him, and then he went home happy. Another, more elderly wizard, pays me so he can clean this flat, without magic, until it gleams like a new pin–’

‘Why?’ I ask, genuinely curious.

‘Because, I presume, his wife has a problem with him wearing only six inch stilletos and rubber gloves while he does the dusting at home.’

I stare at her incredulously.

‘One man,’ she continues, ‘once offered me two hundred Galleons if he could clean my toilet – with his tongue.’

‘Oh, please, that is disgusting.’

‘I try not to make judgements, Professor. I am just trying to give you some points of reference.’

‘I understand.’

‘What about your dream? Does the thought of public humiliation arouse you?’

‘I-I no, no.’ The question was unexpected. The thought, for some strange reason, is almost unbearable exciting, but could never be anything other than a fantasy. I try to think of something to say. ‘I have done enough acting in my time, Mistress Roxanne. I want to be myself, now – whatever that may be. I have no desire for role play.’

She is looking at me now; sizing me up. I realise I am on the verge of making a big mistake. ‘Other than that,’ I add hurriedly, ‘I am in your hands. You are in charge. You know what is best for me.’

She smiles again. ‘I will push you to your limits. You can be sure of that.’ Gesturing towards the door, she stands up. It seems the interview is over.

She does not offer her hand, so I merely bow and take my leave. As she sees me out, she stands close enough for me to smell her and I inhale deeply. Yes, I know you, but I can’t for the life of me remember.

'Oh, I almost forgot.' The sound of her voice brings me to my senses. 'You may Apparate to the vestibule no sooner than fifteen minutes before your appointment. I will set the wards to admit you.' And with that, she closed the door.

With no other business to detain me, I Apparate back to Hogwarts and walk up the drive, marvelling at this new found sense of liberation I feel. I am both excited and apprehensive about the whole venture, but most of all I am intrigued by the true identity of ‘Mistress Roxanne’. My mind mulls it over; smell, voice, laugh… biting the bottom lip. I stop dead, just before I reach the castle doors.

‘Fuck me! Hermione Granger!’

~*~*~*~

I do not think I have run so fast in my entire life, and I am not as fit as I used to be. By the time I get to my chambers and ward the door, my heart is thumping in my chest and the sweat is pouring off me. I lean against the door and bang my head against it.

How could I have been so fucking stupid? I have spent the better part of an afternoon pouring my heart out to Hermione fucking Granger! What if she tells anyone? I’ll be a laughing stock. Worse still, she could tell Minerva and I’d be out of a job.

I pour myself a firewhisky – a large firewhisky and try to calm down.

‘Well, Severus,’ I say to myself, ‘you wanted to be humiliated. You’ve only got yourself to blame.’ 

It just goes to show you should be careful what you wish for. Chances are, it’ll turn around and bite you in the arse.

I sit down and go over the conversation I had with Mistr-Miss Granger. There is no doubt about it, she gave me enough rope to hang myself with, and like an idiot I took the bait. 

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

I take a swig of whisky and concentrate on the numbing burn in my throat. That’s what I would like to be at this moment – numb.

She had come so highly recommended, though. All my contacts said the same thing. Professional, strict, discreet and … expensive. The thought strikes me that the subject of money never came up. She mentioned letters. Does she intend to blackmail me? I start to panic again.

_Deep breaths, Severus, and think._

Discreet. All right, let’s focus on that. She is supposedly the best dominatrix in the business. She couldn’t be that if she blabbed about her clients to all and sundry, now, could she? No, she could not.

_I rarely take on new submissives._

Then why me? What’s so special about me? Is she after some sort of revenge? I pour myself another whisky and notice that my hands are shaking. 

Hermione Granger. It must be ten years since I saw her last but it seems like yesterday. She came to see me when I was incarcerated at the Ministry awaiting trial. I will never forget her… Oh, sweet, Merlin! That’s why she’s wearing that glamour!

The wound Lucius gave her was still fresh then – she had been lucky not to lose an eye. Even though I saw him do it, it was still a shock to see her young, pretty face so badly disfigured, and I’m ashamed to say I recoiled at the sight of it. She turned away from me, thanked me for saving her life and… 

‘Yesss,’ I let out a long breath, ‘I did, didn’t I?’

She owes me. 

Well, Miss Granger or Mistress Roxanne, or whatever else you want to call yourself, do your worst. I am more than ready for whatever you care to throw at me.


	3. The Interview: Hermione

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione considers her prospective client.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual disclaimers apply.
> 
> Thanks go to my two angels, Septentrion and Darkheartwalsh for their beta work, encouragement and support.

During my time in this business, I have seen some bizarre behaviour and received some very odd requests. I thought I had seen it all and that I was, to all intents and purposes, shockproof. That was until the day I received the letter from Severus Snape requesting an interview with me.

Don’t get me wrong, I was not surprised that Snape was the kind of man who wanted to be dominated and humiliated; I have had many men use my services over the years who have very high profile, demanding jobs in real life – men who you would think would be very dominant in the bedroom. In fact, to me, it made a strange sort of sense. Snape had been easily influenced by the likes of Lucius Malfoy – and Voldemort, of course, in his youth, which could easily be taken as an early indication of his submissive tendencies. No, what shocked me was the forthrightness of his request. There was no fawning or begging for me to take pity on his unnatural urges. He did not use an alias, which many people do – at least in the initial stages; he signed his own name and said in no uncertain terms that he was looking for a ‘strict mistress.’ He also said he appreciated that I was expensive, that money was not a problem and that he was approaching me because I had been highly recommended.

These days, I rarely take on new submissives, especially novices, mainly because there is no need for me to do so. I have my half-dozen or so regulars, which provides me with a steady income and leaves me the time to spend doing the things I really want to do. An arrangement which suits me just fine. 

But, I have to say I was intrigued. For one thing, this was a former teacher who had once been the bane of my life and who had terrorised generations of schoolchildren, some of whom had been my friends. It seemed like a case of what goes around comes around; poetic justice, even. But, mainly, I was just plain curious to see this reclusive man once again; this extraordinarily brave man who had risked his own life on too many occasions to count during the war with Voldemort. He had saved my life, too, saved me from the clutches of Lucius Malfoy in fact, and I knew I owed him big time. The least I could do would be to grant him an interview.

~ * ~

I check my glamour and my general appearance in the mirror five minutes before he is due to arrive. I like to look neat and businesslike in the initial meeting so that my prospective clients understand from the outset that I am a professional and that my time is money. He will be on time, I know. This is Severus Snape we are talking about – Mr Punctuality himself. As expected, there is a knock at the door just as the clock chimes the hour.

I open the door, feeling suddenly nervous for no apparent reason, and there he is, older than I remember, but then I haven’t seen him in years. He hasn’t altered that much; he’s as thin as ever, and his hair is still as black as a raven’s wing, but he does look… I hesitate to use the word haggard but… tired, certainly. He also looks slightly apprehensive as he appraises me, but he hides it well.

‘Come in, Professor Snape,’ I say. ‘I am Mistress Roxanne.’ I hold out my hand. He hesitates before shaking it. ‘Would you like some tea?’

‘Yes, I would,’ he replies, and I shiver as that voice brings back so many memories both good and bad. ‘Thank you.’

I pour the tea, and we make small talk about inconsequential things. Normally, I would do this until I feel the client is relaxing in my presence. Snape, however, is not a man for idle chitchat, and so I cut it short. I sit back in my chair with my cup of tea and ask him to tell me about himself. I also ask that he is honest with me and to be aware that the more he puts into the experience, should I decide to take him on, the more he will get out of it. He nods in understanding.

He struggles to put his feelings into words; for a man like Snape, this must be torture. It’s a wonder he isn’t squirming in his seat. He tells me of a dream, which may or not may be significant. A lot of people have dreams about being naked in a public place; that does not make them exhibitionists. I smile and encourage him to continue. 

Snape proceeds to tell me about his childhood. It is a variation on a theme I have heard countless times. I watch his body language as he talks about his father and then his mother. As always, it is the things they leave out that interest me. It is evident that he was sure in the unconditional love of his mother, and yet he barely mentions her. Isn’t it strange how we emphasise the bad things that happen to us and take for granted or ignore the good things? I take a few mental notes. I will jot down my impressions once he has left.

When I mention masturbation, I can see I have struck a nerve. Guilt, self-hatred, the desire to be punished and a feeling of disgust about the body, all things that keep people like me in business. His life obviously didn’t improve during his adolescence, and he seems to have had a pretty miserable time at Hogwarts. My ears prick up when he mentions Harry’s mother – it seems the rumours were not entirely accurate. 

Out of nowhere, he mentions Bellatrix Lestrange, and I almost drop my tea into my lap. I have to listen to the sordid details of his first sexual encounter and try to remain detached, but it is not easy, not after… I try not to drift off and allow my own demons to claim me. I want to tell him that what she did to him was abuse, plain and simple, and has nothing to do with the kind of activities that consensual adults indulge in, but he is talking less hesitantly now, and I do not want to interrupt. It saddens me that there has hardly been anyone else in his life since then.

‘So, what brought you to me?’

The question seems to galvanise him as he goes about explaining his motives. Again, I am struck by his low self-esteem and feelings of unworthiness. As I have said, I have heard it all before but with him… I just feel he deserves more out of life. 

‘…I did not think my chances of finding a willing, not to mention, discreet partner, to be that great…’

He’s probably right, but not for the reasons he thinks. I’m sure he has no idea of the emotional investment he would have to make with a dominant woman for a partner. He would have to give as well as take, and I’m not sure he would be capable of making that kind of commitment within a relationship. Keeping it professional will allow him to maintain a certain amount of emotional detachment which, I think, is what he requires. I am therefore surprised when he expresses an interest in slave training. Again, he has no idea of what that entails, and I make it quite clear that I would not be able to help him should he decide to explore that option.

‘Pity,’ he says, and I cannot help but laugh. I always knew Severus Snape had a dry sense of humour. I feel myself warming to this rather dour wizard. I shall take him on – I knew I would as soon as I saw him, but although I could easily give him a session this week, I will stall him. I want him eager, and I want him ready. This may take a few weeks preparation, but he is new at this game, and I want him to be sure he knows what he’s letting himself in for. Nevertheless, he is obviously disappointed at the delay.

We talk a bit more about fetishes in general and his in particular. I am not surprised when I learn what his preferences are. Whips and leather. I knew it would be that somehow; predictable, safe even. He averts his eyes in embarrassment at his confession, so I tell him about some of the other things men have asked me to do, simply to demonstrate how normal he is, relatively speaking. I do not want him to feel like a freak when he is with me. Far from it, I want him to find some degree of contentment from our relationship. Just how much, I have yet to decide.

When I ask him about his dream again, he seems flustered. I cannot imagine a situation where Severus Snape would willingly take his clothes off in a public place, but… stranger things have happened. I decide to let that idea simmer for a while. He hesitates suddenly, seemingly afraid that he has gone a little too far in his demands and that he be about to offend me. I see a brief glimmer of fear in his eyes that I might reject him. Oh, he will make a good sub, I am sure of that. 

I have heard all I need to hear. I lead him to the door, and we say our goodbyes. I stand perhaps a little too close to him, and he trembles slightly. I cannot help but wonder how he would react if he ever realised who I was.


	4. Correspondence (i): Severus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus receives his first letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual disclaimers apply.
> 
> Thanks go to my two angels, Septentrion and Darkheartwalsh for their beta work, encouragement and support.

For two days, I have been in the foulest of moods. I have had no time for the dunderheads that plague me on a daily basis, and I can barely keep a civil tongue in my head when engaging in conversation with my esteemed colleagues. Even Minerva, who has always ignored my ‘temper tantrums’ as she calls them, saw fit to reprimand me for my ‘attitude’.

On the third morning after my… I suppose, ‘encounter’ best describes it, I was drinking my coffee when an owl dropped a letter on my plate. I stuffed it hastily into my pocket, but I was not quick enough. As I rarely get letters, Minerva just had to comment.

‘A letter, Severus? How unusual. Does this have anything to do with your continual bad humour these past few days, by any chance?’

I grunted something non-committal and left the Great Hall. 

Throughout the day, I have been painfully aware of the letter in my pocket, but I have resisted the temptation to open it until I am alone in my chambers. I know I have a pile of work to plough through by tomorrow, but my concentration is shot. It will have to wait.

After an interminable staff meeting and a hurried dinner, I am, finally, able to retire to my quarters for the evening. I close and ward the door behind me and walk over to the hearth rug to light the candle sconces. I cannot put it off any longer. I take the letter out of my pocket, take a deep breath and open it.

‘Good Evening, sub severus, I trust you are well.’

_Holy Mother of Merlin, the bitch has charmed it to speak! Thank God I didn’t open it in the Great Hall!_

The sound of her laughter fills my living room. ‘I hope you remembered to wait until you were alone before opening this, sub severus.’ She laughs again.

 _Sub Severus._ I bristle at being called that by Hermione sodding Granger. However, my body is responding in a different manner, imagining the potentially mortifying embarrassment I have narrowly avoided.

‘I am going to give you your first task, but before I do, you are to stop where you are, take off all your clothes, and kneel on the floor. Do it now. By hand. You are not to use magic. When you have done this, say, ‘I am ready, Mistress Roxanne.’’

I am frozen to the spot. I look at the letter, but there are no more words visible. I do not want to do this, but the authority in her voice compels me to obey. If I do not, I reason, she may make things worse for me. As if under the influence of the Imperius Curse, my hands move to the buttons of my robe. Slowly, I begin to undress. It does not take me long, as I am only wearing my day robe, socks, boots and underpants. I kneel on the rug, feeling cold, exposed and somehow vulnerable. This is the first time I have ever been naked in my chambers, other than my bedroom or bathroom, and I feel like a fish out of water. 

‘I am ready, Mistress Roxanne.’ 

‘Good. First of all, I want you to be comfortable. If you are cold, for example, then light the fire…’

With a flick of my wrist the fire is lit. I am grateful for its warmth.

‘Your task this week is quite simple. From now on, I want you to think of this time between now and when you rise in the morning as my time. When you visit me, you will be spending a lot of your time on your knees, naked…’

In spite of myself, my heartbeat quickens.

‘I want you to think about this right now…’

I can think of nothing else.

‘When you return to your chambers each evening, you are to remove your clothes as you have done tonight, where you are tonight Anything you have to do from now until you get up in the morning you will do naked…’

I cannot possibly–

‘If you have to patrol the corridors, you will wear your cloak. Naturally, I do not expect you to expose yourself in front of the children. If there is an emergency, then you may use your discretion. Otherwise, in the confines of your quarters, you are to remain unclothed. Furthermore, you are to refrain from masturbating until further notice. That is all for the moment.’

All? My cock is harder than it’s been for a long time. She expects me to mark essays like this?

I pull myself up into my armchair without thinking and jump as my bare arse hits the cold leather. I lean back cautiously. I have always loved this chair. I love the crinkled texture of the old leather and its wonderful smell, particularly after the house-elf has polished it, but I have never had so much of it in contact with my skin before. This is a new experience, and I find that I am relishing the tactile sensations. 

I close my eyes and sigh in contentment. I have always loved the feel of leather. Yes, I know, I know, it goes back to my father’s belt. You wouldn’t need to be a genius to work that out. It feels like I am indulging in some forbidden pleasure, which, if I were to analyse it, would be rather pathetic. I am approaching fifty years of age, I am sitting in my own chair in my own quarters with the door securely warded, and I feel guilty about the feel of leather against my skin. I arch my back and rub my hands over the rougher, more worn leather on the arms of the chair. I am no stranger to sexual abstinence, but I feel a strong urge to stroke my cock. Why wouldn’t she…

My thoughts go back to Hermione Granger. There was nothing untoward in the letter, and still no mention of money. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. Right now, it doesn’t seem that important. I get up and stretch. Perhaps if I concentrate on my work, I will feel less aroused.

Even the short walk to my desk is an assault on the senses, however. I am keenly aware of the air on my skin, my nipples are stiff and I am coming out in goosepimples. The stone floor is cold under my bare feet. I may have to conjure up some more rugs. I sit down on my desk chair, more gingerly this time, preparing myself for the shock of the cold leather. If this keeps up, I am going to have to invest in some new cushions.

Within the hour, the inane scribblings of thirteen and fourteen-year-olds have dampened my ardour. By the time I have begun on the seventh years, I have almost forgotten that I am not wearing a stitch of clothing. Ah, Miss Lawson. As usual her work is neat, concise and well researched. She is rather a sour looking witch who never seems to smile much and has a short temper. She also has the most enormous breasts that not even her school robe can disguise. My cock twitches as the brief image of Miss Lawson, in a corset wielding a whip, flashes through my mind. 

_I wonder what she’d say if she knew I was thinking about her tits while marking her essay in the altogether?_

‘Dirty old pervert, probably.’ I chuckle to myself. 

I stretch my back and sigh. Now that’s all out of the way, the rest of the evening is mine to do with as I please – well, almost. I pour myself a drink and stand with my back to the fire. Mercifully, I am not on duty until next week, but that does not normally prevent me from patrolling the corridors on the lookout for curfew breakers and hormonal adolescents seeking a private place for a shag. Right now, however, Gryffindor Tower could be hosting an inter-house orgy, and I wouldn’t give a monkey’s. This is my time, or rather Miss…tress Roxanne’s time, and for once I do not care about the comings and goings of the castle’s inhabitants. 

Although it is still a little early, I decide to go to bed and read for a while. I will feel less exposed in my bedroom, not to mention, warmer. The house-elf has laid out a clean nightshirt for me on the bed, as usual. I reach for it and stop.

_Anything you have to do from now until you get up in the morning, you will do naked…_

I throw the nightshirt towards the chair and pull back the bedclothes. I very rarely sleep in the nude, mainly due to the fact that even in summer the dungeons are cold. It would seem, however, that this is something else that will have to change.


	5. Correspondence (i): Hermione

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione considers her latest client.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual disclaimers apply.
> 
> Thanks go to my two angels, Septentrion and Darkheartwalsh for their beta work, encouragement and support.

I close the door and let out a long sigh. That was… surreal. What would Harry say? – not that I’d ever tell him of course. I turn the idea over in my head and suppress a giggle. Severus Snape as a sub – Sub Severus. A bit of a mouthful, that; I’ll just have to think up something else to call him. Slut-boy? Fuck-Toy? I can’t prevent the giggle this time. A suitable name will no doubt present itself; it usually does. I sigh again and shake my head, glancing at the clock. Twenty minutes to go before my next client arrives; plenty of time for another cuppa. I walk over to the window, stir my tea and try to put my thoughts into some kind of order.

Taking a sip of the hot liquid, my eyes are drawn to the hustle and bustle that is Diagon Alley. Dispassionately, I observe the wizarding community as it goes about its business – young couples, business wizards, children and old crones – I am an outsider now, although I suppose it could be argued that I never truly belonged. A swarm of humanity passes under my window each day, but I never venture out into Diagon Alley when it’s busy like this – chock-full of people finishing work and heading for the Leaky, or running some last minute errands before the shops close. I would panic in such a crowd. Anything I have to do, I usually do first thing in the morning when there are fewer people about, and even that can be a struggle…

Snape… After all this time… The cup rattles on its saucer. I look down and notice my hand is shaking. Oh God, I must be mad to be even considering this.

‘Stop it! Stop it this instant!’ 

I put my tea down and try to calm myself with some deep breathing. My next client will be here soon, and I cannot look like a scared rabbit when he arrives. Walking into the bedroom, I give myself a bit of a talking to. I am always, always professional. I am Mistress Roxanne; Hermione Granger has no business here. Feeling more in control now, I quickly strip off my suit and hang it up in the wardrobe. I already have a corset on underneath, so all I need to do is add a matching wrap around skirt, which reveals a lot of thigh, and pull on my long boots. A quick bit of wand work secures my hair and I’m ready.

A few moments later, there’s a knock on the door. 

‘Enter.’ 

He’s early. 

‘Come in, Poxy. You’re late.’

He looks crestfallen. ‘But, Mistress–’ 

‘No buts. Have you got your Marigolds?’

The grey haired wizard nods. ‘Yes, Mistress.’

‘Then, get in that kitchen, elf, and start scrubbing.’

He takes off his cloak, puts on his rubber gloves, then looks down at his sensible boots.

‘Oh, I almost forgot,’ I say airily. ‘What shall it be today? Red sling-backs?’

He tries not to look disapproving. He thinks sling-backs are common.

‘Court shoes, then?’

‘Please, Mistress.’

I Transfigure his boots into the customary six-inch stilettos and he minces off towards the kitchen happily. I don’t know how he walks in them. I know I couldn’t.

‘Oh, and Poxy.’

‘Yes, Mistress?’

‘Take the tea tray with you.’

He does a little dip to pick the tray up from the table, and then balances it on one hand before sauntering off again. With his long hair and wiggling hips, he looks like some strange travesty of a Bunny Girl.

‘I shall be there to inspect in fifteen minutes, and I want to see those surfaces shining.’

‘Very good, Mistress.’

Dear old Poxy. He’s been one of my regulars for about five years now, and he does so love to do the cleaning, particularly as I allow him to use Muggle products. He’s as happy as Larry and it saves me having to employ someone to do the housework. Best of all, I’m twenty Galleons the richer for it.

I leave him to it and go back to my window gazing. It’s overcast and drizzling out. People are rushing from one shop to another, casting charms to keep themselves dry. The rain lends a dreary greyness to Diagon Alley, leaching all the colour out of the place. When I first came here as a child, agog with the wonder of it all, the bustle and brightness was the first thing that struck me. A perfect, garishly painted mediaeval street in the middle of London, unharmed by the Blitz or the town planners that followed with their plans for ‘modernisation’. But even in the sunshine, for me, the colour is long gone. For me, there are only shades of black and white, and a shadow in a window is all that’s left of that awe-struck little Muggle-born. I rub my arms, feeling cold suddenly.

Unbidden, my thoughts drift back to Snape… How had he reacted to his first sighting of his mother’s world, I wonder? How much did she tell him before he came here for the first time? Did he come here before he was eleven? Did he have eyes like saucers the first time he saw a chocolate frog? No doubt he was excited at the prospect of going to a school where he wouldn’t feel like an outsider – somewhere he would be able to fit in at long last. How soon was it before he realised that Hogwarts held its own terrors?

Poxy, whistling in the kitchen, interrupts my musings. He knows it gets on my nerves, which is why he does it, of course. Responding to it will only encourage him, so I shall ignore him for the time being. Anyway, I really need to get some of my thoughts down on paper while they’re still fresh in my mind. I Summon a Dictaquill and parchment from my bureau and make a start.

‘Okay… early years… Let’s start with the parents… Seemingly a loving couple. Mother a witch, father a Muggle. Client remembers a mother who was strong and able to sort his father out when drunk. Felt safe with her… Query jealous of her control… or even his father’s love for her. A figure of comfort, certainly…’ The sound of what could loosely be described as, ‘singing’, disturbs my train of thought.

‘If I ruled the worr-ld, ev’ry day would be the first day of sprrr-inng…’ Poxy is pushing his luck.

‘Father. Probably loved his son in his own way, but I doubt he could relate to him. Client experienced first arousal when beaten by him. Much guilt about sex and disgust of genitalia…’

‘Every heart would have a new song to si-innng…’ 

I wouldn’t mind so much if he could sing in tune, but Poxy, as they say, can’t hold a note in a bucket. I let out an aggravated sigh.

‘First point. Control of sexual activity. Hmm… Enforced celibacy an option as he is not in any kind of relationship. Query chastity belt. Granting permission to masturbate and orgasm desirable.’ Relieving him of the responsibility of acting (or not) on his urges may free him of some guilt, I feel. ‘CBT likely.’

‘Da-da-daa-dee-da-da-daa-da-dee-da…’

For fuck’s sake. ‘Second point. Desire/need to be punished. Also goes back to childhood/early adolescence but more modern events obviously apply.’ I think about his dream. Does he harbour a secret desire for public humiliation due to his sense of guilt? Hmm… It will be very interesting to see how this develops.

‘Third point–’ 

‘And we’d sing of the JOY EV’RY MORN-ING WOULD BRI-INNNG’

My patience has just run out. ‘POXY, STOP THAT INFERNAL RACKET AT ONCE!’

‘Yes, Mistress. Sorry, Mistress.’

‘I should think so.’ Now, where was I? Um… Oh, yes. ‘Third point. Leather association. Many possibilities here. Clothes, whips, floggers, restraints, etc. Play on childhood association with father’s belt. Emotional reaction may be strong, however. Some caution required, I think.’

The whistling starts up again, but I choose to ignore it, irritating though it is – anything’s better than that bloody awful caterwauling. I huff in annoyance and rub my forehead. How can anyone be expected to concentrate when there’s a wizard with a latex fetish blundering around the place? 

I try again. ‘Fourth point. Anal penetration…’ Well, that’s non-negotiable. He did not mention a preference for it – or experience of it for that matter. I smirk at the thought that I may have anal virgin on my hands. Severus Snape, you don’t know it yet, but your arse is mine.

‘Um… Fifth point. Approval...

I bite my lower lip. I really have to think this one through very carefully. I am on dangerous ground here, I know. One of the reasons I am so good at my job is my ability to see past the obvious desires of my clients and get to the core issues, thereby giving them what they need rather than what they think they want. Snape is no exception (and I’ve a feeling approval is the last thing he’s expecting). An idea is forming in my mind, which is not without risk. With someone as inexperienced as him, I have to take into account the likelihood of emotional involvement – more emotional involvement than I am prepared to tolerate, at any rate. I know the signs, and will end our association before it gets that far, I hope, but I have to consider the very real possibility that Snape will fall in love with me. I’m really not sure I should play these kinds of mind games with him, though. He could end up in a worse state than he is now, and I wouldn’t want to be responsible for that. Still… he’s the one who approached me, so I will do what he is paying me for – and to the best of my ability.

Which brings me to the subject of money. The quill waits patiently as I debate with myself. I tend to charge what I think the client can afford, but even so my services are not cheap. Snape said that money was not a problem, but he is on a teacher’s salary so I doubt he is that well off, and yet I don’t want him to think he’s a charity case either. There is also a lot of preparatory work involved which will take up a great deal of my time. I decide finally on 25 Galleons a session even though I often demand twice that, but then those men can easily afford it.

There is a loud crash from the kitchen. I don’t suppose I can ignore Poxy any longer.  
‘Now, what have you done, elf?’ I shout.

‘N-nothing, Mistress,’ he replies.

‘That didn’t sound like nothing to me. You had better not have broken anything; that’s my best china you’ve got there.’ I pick up my riding crop and walk into the kitchen, only to discover a broken bottle and milk all over the floor. I step in the puddle deliberately.

‘So sorry, Mistress, so sorry,’ he says, banging his head against the worksurface. ‘Poxy is a bad, bad elf.’

He really shouldn’t be doing that at his age. 

‘Banging your head isn’t going to clear up the mess, now is it?’ I say. ‘Get a cloth at once.’

Poxy totters on his high heels towards the sink.

‘Look in the cupboard.’

He bends over and I give him a sharp smack with the crop.

‘Oh, yes, Mistress. Punish poor Poxy. Poxy is a clumsy fucker of an elf.’

‘He most certainly is,’ I agree. ‘Now, get to it. And watch the broken glass; I don’t want you cutting yourself and bleeding over the floor. Understand? Any more mess, and I’ll personally slam your bollocks in the oven door.’

He looks hopeful.

‘But first, you may clean my boots.’

‘Thank you, Mistress.’ He gets down on his knees to polish them.

‘And, no whistling.’

‘Poxy is happy to serve, Mistress.’

‘I shall be in the living-room. No more ‘accidents.’ Are we clear?’

‘Yes, Mistress.’

 

~ * ~

 

I ward the door after Poxy leaves and make my way to the bedroom. There is little to tidy up before I leave for home. Oh, I didn’t mention that I don’t live here, did I? Well, I don’t. This flat is my place of work – my ‘dungeon’, if you like.

I unlace the corset and push it to the floor, glad to be able to breathe freely once more. It’s a relief to be out of it, I can tell you. You’d think the wizarding world would have come up with something better than whalebone, but unfortunately, there is nothing like it for moulding the figure into that hourglass look.

I strip off the rest of my clothes and perform a Cleansing Charm. It will have to do until I can have a bath. I grab some clean underwear from a drawer, my comfy trousers and a sweatshirt from the wardrobe, and dress hurriedly. Everything that is Mistress Roxanne is now on the floor. I stuff all of it away, drop my glamour and Apparate home.

~ * ~

 

Crookshanks greets me with a yowl as soon as I appear in my living room. The poor old thing’s getting a bit long in the tooth now, but then, aren’t we all? I give him an affectionate scratch behind the ear. You know, I’m probably destined to turn into the stereotypical old crone, complete with cat, warts and pointy hat – the only thing missing will be the broomstick – but I’d still rather have him around than live entirely on my own. Feeding him is my first priority; knowing it’s time for supper, he winds his way around my legs as we head for the kitchen together. Once he’s happily tucking in, I put the water on for the pasta. Then, while I’m waiting for it to boil, I pour myself a glass of Chablis and wander out into the garden.

Ahh… lovely. Much better than smelly old London. It’s so nice to be out in the fresh air, too. The weather is unseasonably warm for this time of year, and I intend making the most of it. My garden, although a little on the small side, is pretty, totally secluded and a haven for wildlife as well as a refuge for me. This place used to be my parents’ holiday cottage. During the war, the house was put under the Fidelius Charm, and Mum and Dad lived here for a bit when things got really scary, but with no electricity they were soon climbing the walls with boredom. Australia seemed a better option.

When I first came here to live, I kept up the tight security, allowing only my parents and a few close friends in on the secret. Nowadays, though, with the threat of Death Eater attacks long gone, I only keep up strong wards at night or when I am at work. This allows me to have a few Muggle conveniences like a telly, computer and music player for relaxation. Otherwise, I have my books and my research in Arithmancy, Transfiguration and Charms, which I consider to be my profession (I’ve had my work published in several periodicals), even though the financial rewards are modest – as opposed to my part-time day job, which is extremely lucrative. However, most of my spare cash goes towards funding my book habit, which is my one real pleasure in life. Other than that, and indulging in excellent wine from time to time, I live quite frugally.

My usual evening routine, after I’ve eaten and had a quick bath, is to curl up on the sofa, book in hand, with Crookshanks on my lap. I don’t have to go back to London for four days, so I have plenty of time to catch up on my reading and to complete the review my publishers need by the end of the month. This evening, however, after twenty minutes of staring at the same page, I give up and put the book down, my mind having wandered off on its own accord to reassess this afternoon’s interview. I should stress that it’s very unlike me to think about work when I’m at home like this. Actually, I’m usually quite ruthless about leaving Mistress Roxanne in the wardrobe in Diagon Alley, together with my corsets. She has no place in Hermione Granger’s cottage, but even so…

I have been shown a side of Severus Snape that I never knew existed until today, and I don’t think I’ve taken it all in yet. It was quite obvious from his appearance and general manner this afternoon, that he had gone out of his way to make a favourable impression on me; he’d looked well scrubbed, cleanly shaven and had washed his hair. His clothes, as ever, were immaculate. As he reached out to take the cup and saucer off me, I noticed his hands and nails, which I recall from my schooldays being either stained with ink or potions ingredients, were absolutely spotless. 

I had already begun to consider my options by the time he’d stirred his tea, wondering why the Bat of the Dungeons would want my services… Bat?… Hmm… now, there’s an idea… no, no I couldn’t call him that; it would be too cruel, and I never liked others using that particular nickname. He looks nothing like one, anyway – if anything, he reminded me more of a stork when I was in school – all angles and corners from the crook of that beak of a nose to the sharp edges of his cheekbones, and thin to the point of emaciation. And yet, in spite of all of those shortcomings, he is still an imposing wizard, possessing a natural, fluid grace that can be quite mesmerising – all precision and economy of movement. Nothing hurried or awkward about him at all, but with the ability to strike like a cobra and overpower an enemy in the blink of an eye, should he choose to do so. 

The little nagging voice in the back of my head is telling me it’s a big risk taking on such a dangerous man, but I know in my heart of hearts he means me no harm. Normally, I wouldn’t even entertain interviewing a new client before running a rigorous background check, or without insisting on a personal recommendation, but I dispensed with both in his case. Apart from my closest friends, Severus Snape is probably the one man in the world I would trust completely to be in the same room alone with me.

It will be strange, certainly, and he does present something of a challenge. Physically, he at least seemed to be in good shape for his age. I know his body was much abused in his youth, but it doesn’t seem to have affected him that much. Still, it is essential to bear that in mind when I subject him to punishment, as I’m sure he’s the sort to be too proud to mention that he suffers from the after effects of injuries inflicted years ago. I shall be able to assess that better when I see his skin … 

I am going to see Severus Snape naked…. 

And, finally it hits me. There it is, like the proverbial elephant in the living room. I have been treating this like some… academic exercise, not fully acknowledging the enormity of this undertaking. It isn’t a game. This isn’t some stranger off the street; I am going to be disciplining one of the most powerful wizards in the country. Snape will undoubtedly have noticed that I wear a glamour – he’s not an idiot. If he discovers my identity… No, no, he won’t. Why should he even suspect it’s me? I rub my temples – this is giving me a headache. I don’t need all this aggro. It’s not too late to cancel. Maybe, it would be for the best. Quickly, before I have time to change my mind again, I go over to my writing desk and pick up a quill. ‘Due to unforeseen circumstances…,’ but I find I can’t write it. My hand refuses to move. I don’t know why – perhaps it’s to do with the life-debt – but … I can’t. I will have to go through with it now; I owe him too much to let him down.

Instead, I write, ‘Good evening, sub-Severus. I trust you are well…’

~*~

 

It’s long after midnight before I stop writing. I’ve designed a little training programme for my new sub. The first letter was easy; get him used to being naked, but also get him to start appreciating his sexuality. I will send it to him in a few days; the anticipation will have built up nicely by then. Oh, I’m so evil. I’ve also decided to charm the letters to speak. It’s important that he gets used to the sound of my voice and learns to obey my commands immediately and without question – if he forgets my instruction to open them when he’s alone… well, it will be a timely lesson in the consequences of disobedience. He will be desperate to see me again by the time he’s completed my little tasks. I will forbid him from masturbating, too – by the time he gets my second letter… which reminds me, I need to print some information off the computer for him, and… Now where did I leave those wizarding photographs?


	6. Correspondence (ii): Severus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus' patience is rewarded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual disclaimers apply.
> 
> Thanks go to my two angels, Septentrion and Darkheartwalsh for their beta work, encouragement and support.

‘Ohhh... _God._ ’ 

What time is it? I know it’s early; I am far too familiar with the rhythms of this pile of old stones to think otherwise. As I fumble for the clock, bleary-eyed and disoriented, I become aware of two things: a rock-hard morning erection and a cold damp patch on the sheet. _Fuck._ On inspection, it appears I have not actually ejaculated during the night, but I am _disgustingly_ wet. I reach for my wand, then hesitate as the threads of a memory weave their way into consciousness. Gods... _“The Dream...”_

It was as vivid as ever. I could feel the whip on my back. I was running, hunched over, trying to protect my head and cover my genitals. But… something was… wrong – different. I did not wake up at the usual point. I recall stumbling… yes, I tripped over a kerbstone and fell – hard – onto my knees. A crowd gathered, jeering, and then… a-a pair of red-booted feet – small, dainty feet – came into my line of vision… That’s when I awoke. Like _this_. 

The clock says, “Go back to sleep.” Unthinking, I Summon my wand instead and perform a quick Cleansing Charm. I feel a peculiar sense of relief that my dream did not cause me to lose control – as if that would have let Mistress Roxanne down, somehow – although, to my mind, it would have hardly qualified as masturbating... 

I snort. _Mistress Roxanne, my arse._

I seem to be in danger of losing track of who I’m dealing with, here. Flopping back on the pillow, I put my hands behind my head and stare at the bed’s canopy, wondering why I care about letting _her_ down. It’s all rather confusing. I sigh, glancing at the clock again. Still no need to get up yet...

Yesterday was hell.

I spent the entire day in a state of constant arousal, barely able to concentrate on my work, wondering – hoping that _she_ would contact me. Such a lapse cannot be tolerated again – my negligence almost caused an explosion. Every movement set my nerves jangling; every brush of my robes against my legs... By yesterday evening, I was at my wits’ end – so much so that, when I returned to my chambers after dinner, I began to tear at my clothes before I had put up the wards on the door. Being naked was a respite from all that-that _tickling_. I groan, knowing today will be no easier. In fact, it is likely to be be a whole lot worse. 

For someone who has always prided himself on his intellect and for whom the desires of the flesh were an inconvenience to be largely ignored, the last few days have been something of a revelation. Somewhere along the line, my brain seems to have decided to take up residence in my groin. I do not think I have ever been so obsessed with sex in my life – not even when I was a teenager did I feel so-so _governed_ by these basest of urges. All this sudden _want_ , despite the fact that there is not the slightest hope of me ever fucking... And yet, against all reason, I have this... yearning to please _her_ , my would-be mistress, to do her bidding, to yield to her command. My cock aches just thinking about it; I long to wank myself off, but if – and it’s a big ‘if’ since I still don’t know what Miss Granger’s game is – if I choose to continue my... association with her, I will have to comply with her instructions. What’s left of my logical brain tells me not to be so stupid and give in to the demands of my body. 

Instead, I turn my attention to an even more pressing need. I roll over and get out of bed, struggling to think of something to make my erection go down since I am now desperate to empty my bladder.

 _MinervasnoggingFilchsnoggingAlbusshaggingHagrid_. The shuddering horror invoked by those particular images has the desired effect by the time I reach the toilet. Gods, that’s a relief! I shake the drips and head for the shower. Washing myself hurriedly, I am careful to avoid any prolonged intimate contact. Then, as the first twinges of arousal make their presence felt, I turn the tap to cold, brace my hands against the wall and let the water cascade down my back.

With sanity restored, albeit temporarily, by the cold water, I try to rationalise my predicament. To begin with, I remind myself for what seems like the hundredth time, it was me who felt the need to seek out the services of a Dominatrix, me who insisted on the best. _I_ wanted this; I was the one desperate for an interview with Mistress Roxanne. There was no coercion on her part. 

It must be said that, with our world being so small, I had to reconcile myself early on in my search to the possibility that my ideal mistress, whenever I found her, would once have attended Hogwarts. To avoid this unwanted complication, I had initially considered extending my search to the Muggle world but quickly dismissed the idea, deciding that it might prove too risky. I would never have been completely at ease – and in any case, no Muggle could ever truly dominate me, which would have defeated the object of the exercise. I was therefore incredibly relieved, when I eventually met the mysterious, elusive, Mistress Roxanne, that she was not someone I knew. I suppose, looking back, that fact alone should have immediately aroused my suspicions.

Let’s be honest here; the first time I laid eyes on the woman, I was attracted to her. Not just physically – I _connected_ with her. She made me feel safe and accepted, and I opened up to her – even when I felt the first inkling of recognition, I kept pouring out my heart to her against my instincts and better judgment... On some level, my mind refuses to acknowledge that Mistress Roxanne could possibly be Hermione Granger. There is no way I could be attracted to that girl. I was never interested in her – ever, although she was pretty enough, I suppose… No. No, I don’t _want_ to believe that _she_ could be the answer to my prayers, yet I know… Mistress Roxanne… could. _That_ is my quandary. I want to be dominated by Mistress Roxanne, not Hermione Granger. A shiver runs down my spine which has nothing to do with the cold water. The thought of kneeling, bound, at her feet, awaiting– I slam my hand against the shower wall in annoyance, raging against the unfairness of it all, my stupidity, and Granger’s duplicity for deceiving me so. 

Getting out of the shower, I reach for a towel and dry myself briskly. I wonder… What if the woman behind the glamour had turned out to be... one of my Slytherins, say – or one of the many nondescript, uninspiring, totally forgettable females that have passed through my dungeon classroom? I suppose I would have been initially uncomfortable, but with a few assurances, I would still have gone ahead. But Granger… why did it have to be the one witch who reminds me of a time in my life that I would very much rather forget...

‘ _Ah, we have a guest. Join us, Severus. I’m afraid Bella’s ruined the Mudblood’s cunt, but her arse is still quite tight– ’_

_‘Don’t waste your breath, Lucius. Severus would rather be on the receiving end, wouldn’t you, pet?’_

Bella… _Oh, Fuck!_ What must she have thought when I was waxing lyrical about Bella? It’s a wonder she didn’t throw me out on my ear. Will she want revenge for having to listen to my pathetic whining? I know it’s inappropriate, but the thought of punishment has the predictable effect.

I Summon my wand and cast a Drying Charm on my hair. There can be no doubt that a bond was formed between Miss Granger and I the day I gave up my freedom to save her. I did not hesitate to alert the Order, even though I knew I would be arrested, and if I had my time over, I would do it again without a second thought. Seeing her at her most vulnerable, though… Hmm, that does put me in a position of power over her which might compromise our… relationship. Perhaps she recognises it, too. Perhaps she only agreed to see me out of some sense of obligation. I’m not sure how that makes me feel.

As for the glamour… Disguising her appearance must go with the job; I don’t think I should take that personally. I assume she uses a glamour with all her clients – otherwise word would soon have got out that one of the Golden Trio was into whips and chains in a professional capacity. I snigger a bit at that, imagining the headlines in the _Daily Prophet._ I think we can discount blackmail, Severus, old boy… Another thought occurs to me; she presumably believes that the glamour has fooled me, and that I am ignorant of her true identity. Hmm... I may not have the upper hand here, but there may be some yet unseen advantage to be gained…

I sigh, gazing at my face in the shaving mirror. What must she think of me? I know I’m not much to look at; I know there is no way she could find me attractive. That would be too much to hope for and completely unnecessary, anyway. So, why do I care what she thinks? Why, in spite of all my reservations, do I still want to go along with it? It simply does not make any sense. I lather up some shaving soap and brush it onto my face. Hermione Granger. Why am I putting myself through all this... torment for you? Reaching for the razor, I pause. The answer is really quite simple. Because, Severus, you sad old bastard, you have never felt so alive in all of your pathetic excuse of a life.

~*~ 

At breakfast, I am partly disappointed, partly relieved to see there is no letter for me this morning. I will have to get through another day somehow and try not to think about Mistress Roxanne and the next task she has planned for me. Yes, it’s Mistress Roxanne, now. I have decided, for my own peace of mind, it is easier to think of her only as that – unless and until Miss Granger puts in a surprise appearance.

At lunch, I find I have little appetite. The idea of food is nauseating. Poppy looks at me with concern and tries to foist some stodgy pudding on me. I know she means well; she’s one of the few women of my acquaintance who has always had my best interests at heart. Nonetheless, Spotted Dick and custard is the last thing I feel like at the moment. I return to the dungeons early to prepare for my afternoon classes.

In the last period of the day, an owl swoops into the Potions classroom and drops a small parcel with a letter attached to it on my desk. I recognise the writing immediately and hastily put it into my robe pocket. There are another twenty minutes of this lesson to go according to the hour-glass which, I know, are going to feel like an eternity, but I can neither open the package nor leave the classroom unattended. I feel my cock hardening and thank the gods that my teaching robes cover a multitude of sins. _Please don’t let these imbeciles fuck anything up._ I’m afraid that if I have to move in a hurry to contain someone’s cauldron, I might do myself a mischief.

As soon as the little miscreants have gathered their belongings and left, I clean up the classroom in a frenzy of wand-waving, anxious to get back to my chambers. Unfortunately, one of my Slytherins calls my attention to a scuffle that has broken out in the corridor, and I have to go and intervene. Just my luck. By the time the hexes have stopped flying, and I have sorted out the carnage, cleaned up the blood, assigned detentions and escorted an hysterical first-year Hufflepuff to the Hospital Wing, it is almost time for dinner. As I turn to leave, Poppy, who has administered a Calming Draught to the over-excited child, offers to accompany me to the Great Hall. I try my best to put her off but find myself on the receiving end of one of her best nursing stares when I say that I’m not hungry. I realise with a sigh that she is not going to take no for an answer. Madam Pomfrey can be one determined witch when she feels the need to reprimand someone for not taking care of themselves properly, and I know when not to cross her. Hungry or not, I know I’ll have to eat something or I’ll never hear the end of it.

So, after being escorted, if not frogmarched, to the High Table, I try to make a show of eating something. I pick at my food for a bit, pushing it around the plate and half-heartedly discuss the forthcoming Gryffindor-Slytherin Quidditch match with Minerva. Eventually, I manage to extricate myself from the riveting conversation, say my goodnights and leave. It’s hard not to break out into a run as I stride towards my rooms, turning over the package in my pocket, the sense of excitement building as I wonder what she has in store for me tonight.

~*~

_Finally._ Leaning against the door, slightly out of breath, I take the package out of my pocket and just stare at it for a moment, savouring the anticipation. Separating the letter, I bring it up to my nose and inhale, hoping for some lingering scent of my mistress, but there is none. My fingers are itching to open it but, suddenly mindful of the fact that I am in my chambers and still fully clothed, I walk over to the hearth rug and place the parcel on my chair instead. Reverently, I kiss the letter, prop it up against the package and imagine that it is Mistress Roxanne sitting there, watching me. I undress and kneel on the rug as if awaiting her command, tingling at the thought. Only then do I open the letter. It flies out of my hands immediately and hovers in the air above me.

‘Good evening, sub Severus,’ says the voice of my mistress. ‘I am assuming that you are listening to this, alone, in your chambers. You should therefore be naked, preferably on your knees. If that is not the case, strip now, Transfigure the nearest suitable object into a ruler and smack your arse with it – hard – thirty times. You may then kneel down and listen to the rest of my letter…’

I feel my breath catch in my throat at her words. I have narrowly avoided punishment.

‘… if, however, you were already naked, say, ‘I have been a good boy, Mistress.’

‘I-I have been a good boy, Mistress.’

‘That pleases me, sub. You may open your present. A _Finite Incantatem_ will restore it to its normal size.’

‘ _Accio_ wand!’ True to her word, as I mutter the spell, the parcel expands.

‘You will see that there are, in fact, two bundles,’ she continues. ‘The top one contains some general information which you may find useful, and also some detailed descriptions of the kind of behaviour expected in a good submissive. Some things are more pertinent than others; I have highlighted some basic requirements for your conduct the next time we meet and made my own notes in the margins. You are to read this material in your own time and familiarise yourself with those points I consider essential. The second bundle contains photographs of various fetishes. This is your task for this evening. Make yourself comfortable and work your way through them. Take your time; I want you to look at each one for at least thirty seconds, then sort them into three piles: yes, no and possibly. Be honest with yourself; do not go by your initial reaction, but note how your body responds rather than your mind.’ She laughs. ‘You may be pleasantly surprised by your reactions or... not. Begin whenever you are ready. Say, “I have finished, mistress,” when you reach the end.’

Fetishes? I thought we had already discussed this. Is this some sort of test? Burning with curiosity, I discard the top bundle without looking at it. Time for that later. The pile of photographs underneath are held neatly together by a black ribbon. I ease myself into my armchair and undo the bow. Not exactly sure what to expect, I take a deep breath and examine the first photograph.

Ohh, ye-ss. A man is kneeling, hands tied above his head while his mistress (beautifully dressed in a black corset, I might add) flogs him with a small whip. Of course, I cannot hear the _swish_ of each lash or the cries of the man, but I see the look of pleasure on his face. As if it were not self-evident, a caption in the corner says, ‘Flogging.’ Yes, I want this. Very much. Smiling, I start the ‘yes’ pile by placing it on the table next to me.

I turn my attention to the second one, in which a man with some sort of harness around his head and… Good God, he’s got a tail growing out of his arse! His mistress is making him prance around in circles on a lead, occasionally correcting his movements with a long whip. Well, my cock responds to that, but the concept… no, not for me. I drop the first of the ‘no’ pile on the floor.

A few minutes later, the no pile has increased somewhat as I discard in quick succession photographs of men dressed up in French maids outfits doing the laundry, a woman dressed in some bizarre interpretation of a mediwitch’s robes (I may have to Obliviate myself since the vision of Poppy so dressed has imprinted itself on my brain) giving a bound and blindfolded submissive an enema and a man, in what looks to be a nappy, sucking milk out of a baby’s bottle. I have absolutely no idea what that’s all about, and I have no desire to enquire further.

The next one, however, is much more to my liking. The sub is lying flat on his back with his mistress sitting, fully clothed, on his face. I’m not sure if he’s still breathing, but what a way to go. The woman picks up a book, adjusts her seat and appears to read. Occasionally, she picks up a crop and beats him with it. I am rather intrigued with this idea and add it to the yes pile.

Over the next hour, I apply myself diligently to my allotted task, and the stack gradually diminishes. Conscientiously, I give each image my full attention for the required amount of time: some arouse my curiosity but nothing more, some I stare at longingly, others I have to force myself to look at. Some make me cringe – this one here where the woman is pushing a metal rod inside the man’s penis, for example, is making my eyes water, but I keep looking. Somewhere during the past thirty seconds, I notice, I have unconsciously crossed my legs. 

The one thing that strikes me about them all, however, is the look of peace on the faces of the submissives. I want that. Whatever it is they have, I want it. Sighing, I work my way through a tableau depicting different bondage scenes, aching to be the man subjected to the ropes and restraints that suspend him off the floor, helpless and totally at the mercy of the Dominatrix. As she pinches his nipples and attaches clamps to them, I pinch mine and wonder what it would feel like… Trance-like, I watch her tugging his balls and binding his scrotum with a leather strap, to which she then add weights… ‘Cock and ball Torture (CBT)’ announces the caption, helpfully. It looks exquisitely painful. Soon, soon, it will be my turn to experience such delights for real. It goes on the ‘yes’ pile.

The very last photograph brings me out of my reverie with a jolt. A man, wearing only leather shorts and a collar, is led to a square metal frame on a dais where his hands and feet are spread wide and fastened by restraints at the four corners. An audience, in various states of undress watch the scene intently. Once secured, his mistress pulls down the two zips on each side of his shorts that hold the material together, then removes them, leaving him exposed and erect… I throw it on the no pile, but my heart is racing. _’Be honest…’_ I pick it up again and quickly put it on the ‘possible’ pile, even though such a thing is totally _im_ possible. My task for the evening is now complete. I look at the sum of my endeavours; the ‘no’ pile is by far the biggest of the three. I smirk. Seems I’m not as kinky as I thought. Well, no point delaying any further; I suppose I’d better find out what’s next…

‘I have finished, Mistress.’

‘Excellent. I trust you found that exercise worthwhile. Now, I want you to look at the ‘possible’ pile again and pick out the one you find the most appealing. Say, ‘I have chosen, Mistress,’ when you are ready.’

I look through the photographs. It is hard for me to do this, very hard, but I still pick up the one that shows the man having the flogging in public.

‘I have chosen, Mistress.’

‘Good. Now – I’m assuming you are sitting in a chair – put your legs over the arms.’

This I do. It’s murder on the back, but I try to make myself as comfortable as possible.

‘With the photograph floating in front of you, I want you to touch yourself as I tell you. You will begin with your face…’

I follow her instructions to the letter, running my fingertips over my face, down my neck to my chest. I tease my nipples as she tells me, pinching and pulling, closing my eyes as I give myself up to the sensations. My cock is so hard; I think I am going to come soon whether she gives me permission to masturbate or not.

‘… Drag your nails up your inner thighs. That’s right and down again… Now, cup your balls with your left hand. Are they nice and full, sub Severus? I bet they are.’ She laughs.

Oh, gods. Much more of this and–

‘I bet they’ve risen up close to your cock, too. So, I want you to grip them nice and firmly and gently pull them down and away…’

 _Ooooh…_ The stretch is uncomfortable but not really painful. It certainly takes the edge off. In the photograph, the mistress pulls down the zips… _Please, Mistress Roxanne…Don’t…_

‘… Play with your balls with both hands. Enjoy the feel of them, the weight of them. Separate them, rub them with you thumbs…’

_I. Want. To. Come._

‘Does that feel good?’

‘What the fuck do you think?’

‘Trail your left hand underneath and stroke the skin there. When you reach your anus, I want you to insert your little finger.’

_What?_

‘Do it, now, sub. You may as well get used to it.’ The sound of her laughter fills the room again.

I hesitate and wet my finger with my saliva before complying. What does she mean, ‘get used to it?’

‘Move it in and out for me like the good little sub you are. You like that, don’t you, you dirty boy?’

‘Ye-esss.’ It feels surprisingly… good.

‘Is your cock leaking now?’

Oh, yes. I watch the woman attaching the nipple clamps… _– ‘You want this, sub Severus. I know you do.’ –_

‘I want you to smear some of that lovely spunk on the fingers of your right hand and lick it off. Have you done that before?’

Only out of curiosity when I was a teenager. I find the idea distasteful, but do as she commands.

‘Good. Now, spread some more over your cock and start stroking it. _But_ , you are not to come until you have counted to a hundred.’

 _A hundred? She must be joking! I doubt I’ll get to ten!_ But I start counting – quickly. 

‘ …fifteen, sixteen, seventeen…’ The man in the picture silently screams as his mistress wields the whip. I manage to avert disaster by tugging hard on my scrotum… 

‘… Thirty… thirty-one …’ She pulls the nipple clamps off. _Shit! I’m going to lose it._ Flogging, flogging… _Mercy, mistress._ Panting, soaked in sweat... ‘I can’t… can’t…’ 

‘…sixty-three…sixty-four…’ The woman grabs her sub’s cock roughly… _Sweet Nimue…_

‘… seventy-nine… eighty…’ The man throws back his head as he ejaculates. _Mustn’t…_

‘…Ninety-five… ninety-six.’ I let go of my aching balls… ‘One– Holybuggeringfuckingsodding _hell!’_

~ * ~ 

I am resting, my head lolling on the back of the chair, trying to calm my breathing. Totally spent, I can’t move, and I don’t want to, covered as I am in several days worth of rapidly cooling pent up frustration.

‘Was that worth waiting for, my little sub?’

Fuck, yes.

‘Now, you dirty little boy, rub that nasty mess you’ve made all over you. Rub it into your skin; over your balls, thighs, torso and face. I want you to inhale the smell of your come; suck your fingers and savour it. You are going to go to bed tonight and wake up tomorrow reeking of sex.’

I am too exhausted to even think about what she is asking me to do. I just do it.

‘When you have recovered, gather the photographs together and send them back to me. At this stage, you may write me a short note with any questions that are bothering you. I will be in touch within a couple of days. Needless to say, I expect you to remain chaste until then.’

In this state of post-orgasmic bliss, I remain in my chair feeling limp and languorous. I still don’t feel like moving particularly, but I will fall asleep here if I do not. Wearily, I stand up.

‘Oh, I almost forgot.’ The sound of her voice startles me. ‘From now on, you will wear nothing under your robe during the daytime other than your boots and socks. Goodnight, sub. Sleep well.’

Oh, fuck.


	7. Correspondence (ii): Hermione

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Owl Post and a visit from Harry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual disclaimers apply. 
> 
> Thanks go to my two angels, Septentrion and Darkheartwalsh for their beta work, encouragement and support.

There’s a scratching, tapping noise coming from somewhere, dragging me out of a troubled sleep. Perhaps if I ignore it, it will go away.

_Tap-tap._

Blearily, I peer in the direction of the window – the source of the irritating sound. 

_Tap-tap._

An unfamiliar owl swims into focus, staring back at me with unblinking eyes. Strange. For a brief moment, I wonder if I’m still asleep. He hoots in impatience. ‘All right, all right.’ Pushing Crookshanks aside, I clamber out of bed and lift the window latch to let him in. He drops a parcel on the dressing table, hops onto the back of a chair and looks at me expectantly. 

‘Okay, beautiful, here you go.’ I give him a couple of Owl Treats and glance at the writing on the package. ‘No message. But you’re a clever one, aren’t you, finding me here?’ I check the name tag again – definitely addressed to Mistress Roxanne, and in a hand I’d recognise anywhere. I can’t recall this ever happening before... This really is most peculiar. I let the owl out and climb back into bed, as it’s Saturday, and I’m in no particular hurry to get up or go anywhere. I plump up some pillows and make myself comfortable. Right, then... Let’s see what my newest sub has to say for himself...

_Dear Mistress Roxanne,_

_I am returning the photographs you so kindly sent me. They were certainly... illuminating. I have left the bundles as I sorted them – I hope this was your intention, Mistress._

_Thank you also for giving me the opportunity to ask questions; I have many and will undoubtedly have more once I have read all the additional material that accompanied the photographs. However, I feel it would be far too presumptuous of me to ask them all at once since your time is precious. I have, therefore, limited them to the following:_

_1\. Do you ever use magic in your sessions?_

_2\. Do I need to buy any special fetish clothes or equipment, and if so, from where?_

_3\. What did you mean in your letter that I should ‘get used’ to... how can I put this delicately... fingering my anus?_

_4\. I would respectfully ask you to give me some idea of the cost of your services._

_I hope these enquiries are not impertinent. I remain your most humble servant,_

_S.S._

I have to smile. “SS” – rather than sign himself, “sub-severus”, he has left it up to me to interpret as I wish. Well, let’s have a look at his choices. Hmm... interesting. I’m not terribly surprised by his selection, but my suspicions about his desire for public humiliation seem to be accurate. Only a possible, though... Oh, well, it was worth a shot. Sighing, I flop back on the pillow and stare at the ceiling while I go over the options for creating a memorable first scene. Getting the balance right is going to be tricky. Pain, pleasure, humiliation, approval – the first two won’t be so bad, or even the last, to weave into the mix, but humiliation... 

Most men, you see, are rather easy to humiliate. Make them wear women’s clothing, scrub the floor and do menial tasks – feminising them, in other words – is usually enough since their conditioning has told them from an early age that women are inferior, what they do is unimportant and being forced to act like one is demeaning. But, Snape? I don’t see how this can apply. He was brought up by a strong witch. He idealises women; he feels unworthy of their attention. They are unattainable, paragons of virtue. I can see why the concept holds no appeal for him. And yet... although most people would never guess, he is by no means a proud man; he forfeited what little pride he ever had the first time he grovelled at Voldemort’s feet. How do I top that? Being on his knees before me should feel like coming home. 

Crookhanks stretches and gives me a gentle nudge. Absentmindedly ruffling his fur, I wonder if Snape feels a sense of complacency about what I can realistically do to him, considering some of the things he was forced to do in the past, and knowing that I am not a criminally insane, sadistic psychopath like... her. I pick up the next photograph quickly.

Not interested in fisting, either, I see. Pity. I could have done something there, but I’m not surprised he rejected the idea. Most straight men find the idea of any kind of anal penetration abhorrent – well, being on the receiving end at any rate; they are more often than not quite happy to give it. If his letter is anything to go by, my initial instincts were right; he is ignorant of the fact that he will have to submit to being fucked. I haven’t mentioned it yet, because I have found it better in the past to let my subs adjust to the idea as their trust in me develops. But I’m not going to lie to him since he’s asked about it. He will be given a fair chance to get used to the idea, but if he refuses point blank, he will have to find another Mistress. It is something I will not compromise on.

Oh... Now, that is interesting. I didn’t think he’d go for the cock and ball torture, I must admit. I thought I’d have to push him down that road... Making disparaging remarks about his genitals could reinforce his sense of inadequacy if I’m not careful, though, but I can definitely work with that – 

_Tap-tap_. More post. This time, it’s a little tawny owl I know only too well that gets me out of bed. I also don’t need a crystal ball to hazard a guess at the letter. Molly Weasley’s weekly invitation to Sunday Lunch. I suppose I should go – it must be six months since I’ve been to the Burrow. She’ll be sending Howlers before long if I don’t. I know she means well, but seeing them and the ever increasing brood of grandchildren (whose names I’ve long given up trying to remember) all at the same time can really be overwhelming. On top of that, I have to endure Molly’s looks of sympathy when Ron and Lavender’s two children pester me for attention, pitying me for my loss, as she sees it. But I am not the least bit regretful; it was never something I aspired to – motherhood and all the trappings that go with it. After writing a quick and cheerful, ‘See you all tomorrow’ on a piece of parchment, I attach it to the owl’s leg and watch him fly for a few moments until he is a speck in the distance.

There doesn’t seem to be much point in going back to bed now, as comfy and inviting as it looks. Crookshanks watches me put my slippers on and jumps off the bed, purring like a mad thing. I snatch Snape’s letter off the bed-side table as Crookshanks winds himself around my legs, urging me to get a move on. He almost trips me up on the stairs in his eagerness to get to the kitchen (and his breakfast) before me. Once I’ve sorted him out, I conjure up some coffee (ah! Bliss) and put the wizarding wireless on just in time for the news. 

Minutes later, the newsreader’s account of the latest Dragon Pox epidemic is drowned out by the intruder alarm. Someone’s trying to get through the Floo. My wand is in my hand before I have time to think about it.

‘Hermione! I’m in the Floo.’

Harry.

‘Hermione...? Are you there?’

Where else would I be. ‘Just a second, Harry. I’m not dressed.’ I put on my daytime glamour, which hides the scarring but does not alter my appearance, Summon my dressing gown and hastily tie the belt as I let Harry through.

‘You took your time,’ he says, brushing the soot off his robe.

‘Hello, to you, too.’ He gives me a peck on the cheek when I scowl at him. ‘I’ve just made some coffee, would you like some?’

Harry nods. ‘Please.’ He lopes off to the kitchen without another word with me trailing in his wake.

‘To what do I owe the honour?' I ask, rummaging in the cupboard for another mug. As if I haven’t guessed.

‘Just passing.’ He looks sheepish as I give him a disparaging look. ‘Erm...Thought I’d drop by and see if you were going to the Burrow tomorrow.'

‘Molly sent you, did she?’

He shrugs and gives me that boyish grin of his – the one that makes me want to reach out and mess up his hair. ‘She worries about you. We all worry about you.’

‘There’s no need. I’m fine.’

‘Fine?’

‘Yes, fine.’

‘No, Hermione. You are not “fine”. It’s Saturday. If you were “fine”, you’d be out in the sunshine or-or shopping, or something.’

I raise my eyes heavenward. 

‘When are you going to rejoin the land of the living?’

I take a deep breath and try not to huff. We’ve had this argument more times than I care to remember. ‘I’m happy with my life. Why can’t you all accept that?’

‘This isn’t _life_ , and you know it.’

I turn my back on him and stand by the sink, gazing out the window. Crookshanks has caught a gnome. ‘Do you remember how I was when I first came here to live?’ Harry doesn’t reply. ‘Do you remember how scared, how paranoid I was? Do you remember how long it took me to even go into the garden?’ 

‘Yes,’ he says, ‘I–’

‘It was over a year before I even allowed Floo access to the cottage – you’d be in Siberia by now, if you’d attempted to come through then. I’ve come a long way, don’t you think?’

‘Yes, of course, but–’

‘This is as good as it’s going to get, Harry. I’m content. I wish you’d just leave it be.’

But, of course, he won’t. He’s like a dog with a bone once he gets going. ‘But you only ever leave the house to go to-to ... work.’

Harry is the only person who knows about my ‘other’ profession. It’s a real godsend having a high ranking Auror for a best friend, I can tell you. Who did you think does my security checks? ‘Don’t start that again. Anyway, it’s not true. Besides, I’m good at what I do, and I enjoy it–’.

‘Do you? Seems to me it’s just become routine. I could understand at the beginning when it was some weird way of working out your anger, but you’re not angry any more, are you?’

Oh, but I am. Only it’s more of a slow simmer now than a full boiling rage. I plaster a smile on my face before I turn around to face him. ‘It gets me out of the house.’ He doesn’t return the smile. ‘It still helps me get through the week, and that’s the best I can hope for – _and_ I’ve already accepted Molly’s invitation for tomorrow, all right? So. No. More. Nagging.’

‘I suppose that’s something.’ He sighs. ‘Hey, that’s Snape’s writing. I’d recognise that scrawl anywhere. What does he want?’

‘Not that it’s any of your business.’ I grab the note before he has a chance to read it. ‘He’s read an article of mine and wanted to offer me some suggestions for further research. Nothing to worry your pretty head over.’

Harry laughs and doesn’t pursue the subject, thankfully. ‘Seriously,’ he says, adjusting his glasses, ‘it was actually Ginny who suggested I come over. She’s thinking of going to a health spa for a weekend and was wondering if you’d like to go, too.’

‘Harry... You know I can’t...’ That would involve revealing more of myself in public than I’m comfortable with.

He looks at me blankly, bless him. ‘There is the small matter of, you know, the scar...’ 

‘Scar? What scar?’ He pushes his hair back from his forehead. ‘You should have had to wear this all your life. “Aren’t you Harry Potter? Go on, show us your scar. Oh, it’s not as big as I thought it would be...” Oww!’

I swat him with the tea towel, laughing. ‘Prat.’

‘You’re still lovely, scar or no. Come on, it’ll do you good. You know you want to.’

‘No , Harry. Really.’

‘Oh, all right. At least I can say I tried.’ He gives me a hug and I stiffen automatically. He notices, but holds me tighter, if anything, before finally letting me go. ‘Ron sends his love, too,’ he says hesitantly. ‘You know... he’d really like to come over some time.’

‘It’s... awkward – being on my own with him. There’s just too much history between us. You know how it is.’

‘I know, and so does he, but that doesn’t make it any easier for him. He still loves–’

‘He’s married to Lavender.’

‘Can you blame him for trying to make a life for himself? You made it pretty clear that you couldn’t bear the thought of being with him–’

‘It’s all water under the bridge. What’s done is done, and I can’t change it. So, how are the kids?’

‘Fine. They’ll be delighted to see you – _tomorrow_. Right.’ He downs the dregs of his coffee. ‘I’m off. Can I Apparate out, please? You know, you really need to stick a brush up that Floo of yours... Ow! Now what have I said?’

~ * ~ 

The grass needs cutting, but I can’t be bothered. Harry’s visits always unsettle me. I don’t think he’ll ever give up hope that one day I’ll be back to normal – whatever ‘normal’ is. And then there’s Ron. I know he feels guilty about what happened, thinks that if he hadn’t got bored in Flourish and Blotts and gone off to the Leaky to wait for me, he could have prevented it. Maybe he could have, but that’s not the point. I let my guard down; Ron can’t be held accountable for that.

It seems like a lifetime ago and yesterday, if that makes any sense – that sunny, late spring day when everything changed. The war was over; we’d survived, and to all intents and purposes, we were safe. Harry and Ginny were already talking about getting married, and Ron and I were very much in love. I was the Golden Girl, the heroine, the witch of the moment, and in my arrogance and stupidity, I thought I was invincible.

I didn’t see the Stunning Hex. The next thing I knew, I was lying on a table, unable to move. Somewhere along the line, my clothing had been removed. Lucius Malfoy put his face close to mine and told me what they were going to do to me...

Being under the Imperius Curse gives you a strange sense of euphoria. Letting Malfoy shove his cock down my throat seemed like the most natural thing in the world. _‘All of it, Mudblood. I know you want it.’_ And I did, God help me, more than I wanted, or needed, to breathe. _Mmm... ye-sss. That’s it. Gag on it, Mudblood. Gag on it like the good little slut you are..._ A cycle of pain, blackouts, revival: Malfoy’s breath in my ear, his sister-in-law’s mad cackling, the indifferent house-elf pouring the wine and the all pervading, cloying scent of jasmine, which I shall always associate with Bellatrix Lestrange and will always make me want to vomit every time I smell it...

‘No. _More!’_

My coffee mug smashes into pieces as it hits wall. I put my fists in my hair, yanking it by the roots.

 _Let it out, Hermione. You need to cry; you’ll feel much better if you let go._ My mother, the psychologist. But I can’t. Not any more. The tears won’t come. I think I’m afraid that if I let out all the anger and pain, there’ll be nothing left but an empty shell. Instead, I start to tremble.

Of its own volition, my hand reaches out towards Snape’s letter. Shakily, the tip of my finger traces the first spiky ‘S’, and for some reason, it makes me feel calmer. What are you doing back in my life, Severus Snape? What are you doing in my house – on a Saturday, no less? I shake my head, trying to clear the fog. Harry was right; I need to get out more. I may answer the letter today, or I may not. It is the weekend, after all and the sun is shining. Once I’ve read the paper, I think I’ll get the mower out and do the lawn the old-fashioned way... Yes, the exercise will do me good.

~ *** ~

_Sub-severus,_

_In future, address me as ‘Mistress’. I am not your dear._

_Your choices were quite revealing and have given me some additional ideas for our time together. I gave you permission to ask questions freely; do not presume to worry about how I spend my time. To answer your questions:_

_I do use magic, but only to aid me with lifting, bondage rigging and so on. I never use curses on a client, if that is what you mean. There are specialist Dominatrices who could cater to this need, if that is what you want, but I am not one of them._

_I supply all clothing and accessories. They are included in your fee and shall be for your personal use only, but they will not leave the premises as they will remain my property. However, you are getting ahead of yourself on this. I shall send you an owl with your instructions on how you will present yourself to me the next time we meet in due course._

_Your training will include a certain amount of anal penetration. You may or may not find this pleasurable, but that is immaterial. It will form part of our contract and is non-negotiable. Our correspondence will terminate now if you are unwilling to entertain this stipulation._

_Do not shy away from being explicit. You will be paying me to fulfil your sexual fantasies. Do not waste my time by being coy about it._

_I have yet to decide on a fee, but I expect it will be in the region of twenty Galleons a session. I shall confirm this closer to the time of our next meeting. Carry on with your tasks. You may continue to freely, but respectfully, ask me questions until I say otherwise. Once you have perused the additional material I sent you, I would like you also to send me a candid report detailing your activities, and the effect my demands are having on your daily life, by the end of next week._

_I shall have a few other little exercises for you. In the meantime, study those passages I have highlighted carefully, for you will be tested on them. I will not be amused if you have not when we next meet._

_Mistress Roxanne_

I sign my name with a flourish. _There._ That’s a good job done. I roll up the parchment and fix my seal on it in readiness for tomorrow, glancing at the clock as I do so. It’s late, but I can’t face going to bed yet. Molly’s cooking is wonderful but, by God, you pay for it afterwards. My stomach is aching due to the rock that seems to have settled there. Someone should tell that woman that love does not equal food. Unfortunately, as one of her adopted brood, refusing a second helping of sticky toffee pudding is tantamount to treason, which is why I feel totally stuffed. After having to endure all the hugging, admonishing, lectures on my unnatural solitary existence and meaningful glances from Ron when Lavender wasn’t looking, it’s a relief to know I can refuse her invitations without feeling guilty for another six months – and know that I won’t have to suffer the chronic indigestion, either. I really hope there’s some antacid potion left in the bathroom cabinet, otherwise I’ll be up all night.

~ * ~ 

_Mistress,_

_I apologise for offending you. It was unintentional, I assure you, and will not happen again. Firstly, I must thank you for the forthright way in which you have answered my questions and for your kindness in continuing to indulge me. It was a relief to learn that you do not resort to curses, Mistress, since I have been on the receiving end of more than I care to remember. I only asked as you did not mention it in my interview nor include any photographs of magical methods of inflicting pain with the other practices. I very much regret if this has inadvertently insulted you in any way._

_I have to admit that the idea of anal penetration does not appeal to me but having read more about the subject in the notes you sent me, I understand that as a submissive, I must surrender to your will and pleasure. As I said in my interview, I am in your hands. Your fees are more than reasonable and well within my means._

_After perusing the additional reading material, I find that many of my initial questions have been answered adequately, but one or two other things have been raised. I found the concept of ‘sub-space’ intriguing and wondered if you could explain further, Mistress, since I did not fully understand the concept._

_Secondly, I am confused regarding the matter of punishment and discipline. Since I find the idea of flagellation arousing, how can it be a punishment?_

_Lastly, there is the question of injury and illness while in your establishment. Although I fully understand that I am taking this path of my own volition and at my own risk, I would like to respectfully ask you, Mistress, what would happen in the event of an emergency? Again, I do not mean to cause offence by this query, or imply that you are uncaring. I have an irrational fear of public exposure; waking up in hospital would be mortifying beyond belief._

_The following is a report of my daily activities, as you requested: last Saturday, I was on Hogsmeade duty. I have stopped wearing underwear as instructed, but Saturday was the first day I ventured out of doors. To be perfectly candid, Mistress, I find having one’s privates dangling about unfettered does make one acutely aware of them, particularly when they rub against one’s clothing, and walking about in the fresh air only served to accentuate this. I felt rather unsettled and... vulnerable, in all honesty, and was reminded of an unpleasant incident that occurred in my adolescence which I shall not bore you with. Suffice to say, I was extremely glad that the weather was balmy with very little in the way of a breeze._

_Sunday, since I was not on duty and had no real need to go out, I decided not to dress at all. I find this preferable since, bizarrely, I am less aware of my genitals when naked. I have become very comfortable with this – indeed it would feel strange now to be clothed when I am alone in my chambers._

_On Monday, I faced my biggest challenge to date. Not long after curfew, I put on my cloak and left my chambers to patrol the corridors. It is fortunate that I have established a routine over the years and have excellent night vision, which enables me to move around the castle in almost total darkness. If I should have had to draw my wand, it may have been disastrous since I could not have accomplished it without exposing myself. I have yet to think of a solution to this problem. As it turned out, however, there were very few rule-breakers to round up, and I was able to return to my chambers quite early on._

_Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday were similarly uneventful, but tonight I had to chase some sixth years up a flight of stairs, which made me break out in a sweat. Not being able to open my cloak to cool off was extremely uncomfortable. Once I had assigned them detention with Filch, I made my way to the last port of call, the Astronomy Tower. It was deserted, fortunately. There was a cool breeze as always and the sky was so clear... without thinking, I opened my cloak and threw it back over my shoulders. It was such a blessed relief to feel the air on my skin, Mistress, I almost forgot that I was standing where someone might easily come upon me. I quickly covered myself and made by way back to my chambers, heart racing at the thought of what I had just done._

_As I sit at my desk writing this letter, I still feel both aroused and astonished at my audacity. I never in a million years would have thought myself capable of doing such a thing only a few short weeks ago, and yet I feel no shame or regret. I find this confusing and am unsure if I should be troubled by this unexpected lack of feeling. I would be grateful for your advice on this._

_I do hope you find this report satisfactory, Mistress. I look forward with eager anticipation to your further instructions, and to the time when we shall meet again._

_I remain your obedient servant,_

_S.S._

_Hmm... He seems to be progressing faster than I anticipated–_ ‘For God’s sake, keep still! How am I supposed to read with you wriggling about?’ I shift my weight forward to allow my sub a chance to breathe, then settle back down on his face. Lazily, I swish the flogger over his crotch a few times before reading Snape’s letter again and pondering how best to reply to his questions. His excitement at being naked in a semi-public place is not surprising, neither is his unwillingness to admit his desire. A gentle push in that direction would not go amiss...

More wriggling. ‘What is wrong with you today, sub? You seem incapable of following the simplest of instructions. Are you trying to annoy me deliberately? ’

‘N-no, Mistress. Sorry, Mistress.’

~ * ~ 

_Sub-severus,_

_I was pleased to read that you have been following my instructions to the letter for which you will be rewarded, but first, let me answer your questions:_

_The concept of subspace is very subjective and not easy to explain to someone who has not experienced it. The closest thing, perhaps, is like the transcendent state of mind brought on by meditation. Feelings of total bliss are not uncommon; for some, it is like flying. I have found that wizards tend to experience it more often and more quickly than Muggles, but I am not entirely sure why this is the case. Naturally, the sub must have full confidence in his Mistress for him to let go and entrust his mind in this way to her. It is something you should aim for but not expect to happen immediately._

_Punishment (not to be confused with ‘contact play’ – see my notes) is not intended to be enjoyable. I shall explain this, and the transgressions which will incur punishment in more detail in your first session. Failure to obey me will not be pleasant, I can assure you._

_Your health and safety are very important. I always heal any injuries where the skin has been broken to avoid infection, but I would not hesitate to seek medical attention for a client who has suffered a collapse or appears ill in any way – regardless of any embarrassment factor involved. Furthermore, while I would expect anyone who seeks out my services to be physically in good shape, I will still require a written declaration to this effect from you before we proceed._

_It pleases me to hear that you are becoming comfortable with your body, sub. The emotions you are experiencing are quite normal. As you begin to push your boundaries, old ideas, expectations and long held certainties will begin to fall away. Naturally, you will feel confused from time to time, as formerly held beliefs on acceptable patterns of behaviour make way for the new. You have embarked on a journey of discovery, sub. Remember that._

_Lastly, your experience on the Astronomy Tower has given me an idea for a little exercise for you. This is what I want you to do..._


	8. Preparation: Severus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is Mistress Roxanne's latest request a step too far?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual disclaimers apply.
> 
> Thanks go to my two angels, Septentrion and Darkheartwalsh for their beta work, encouragement and support.

I must have been out of my mind. What in Merlin’s name possessed me to tell her about the Astronomy Tower? When I wrote to _her_ , just over a week ago, I did not intend–

‘What has that pork chop done to you, Severus?’

I turn to Poppy Pomfrey and stare at her. What is she babbling on about?

‘I’m only asking because you’ve been stabbing it for the last five minutes–’

‘How I eat my food is none of your concern, Poppy, and I’d thank you to stop pestering me.’ I’ve had just about enough of her nagging. Throwing my napkin down on the table, I scowl at her before getting up and storming out of the Great Hall, well aware of the startled expressions I leave behind. 

Angry and agitated, I decide not to return to my rooms, but to have a turn around the grounds and get some air. I need to think, to clear my head. Mistress Roxanne’s reply to my last Owl arrived earlier today, and it has thrown me completely. Walking away from the castle, I remove the letter from my pocket and scan it again (the last few have been the standard, non-talking variety), even though I already know its contents by heart. Up until this morning, I had been eagerly awaiting this Owl, hoping that it would the one to offer me the longed for appointment. Instead, she sends me _this._

_Go back to the Astronomy Tower tonight and drop your cloak by the door. Walk to the furthest point from the entrance, take ten deep breaths and return. A simple little task, don’t you think?_

No. I bloody well don’t. Why not ask me to jump off the parapet while you’re at it?

I continue strolling and re-read the paragraph yet again in the misguided hope that the words will magically change if I stare at them long enough. This has completely ruined my plans for the day; I had intended to go to London this afternoon, as this is a free Saturday, and spend some time in my favourite antiquarian bookshop. I was very much looking forward to it, but this letter has destroyed my good humour and put me off the idea. In short, I am no longer in the mood. 

The only reason I even mentioned the damned incident was because of the unexpected feelings it invoked afterwards. It was the high point of a week spent creeping about the castle after curfew, feeling like a pervert despite the thrill it gave me, praying that I would not encounter any courting couples risking detention for the sake of a sly snog – or more. For the first time ever, I couldn’t wait for my stint of patrol duty to end. Why, oh, why did I feel it necessary...?

My feet have brought me to Dumbledore’s tomb, and I stop to pay my respects, resting my hand on the cold stone. I detested him in life – for the way he manipulated me all those years, but any such feelings are long gone; I learned the hard way that bearing grudges is an exercise in futility. Besides, all the people that ever caused me grief are dead, and I am not. That is revenge enough. Still, no doubt the old bastard would laugh his arse off if he knew the mess I’ve landed myself in this time.

I turn my back on the marble edifice and stare across the surface of the lake. There are a few young couples taking the air, hand in hand, but when they see me, they scurry off in the opposite direction. Hardly surprising, really, since I’ve caught most of them _in flagrante_ at one time or another. Gods, it used to infuriate me – all that teenage fumbling; I suppose because it was a part of adolescence that passed me by. Yes, all right, I admit it; jealousy plays its part, and yes, it has always given me a perverse sense of pleasure to loom out of the shadows just as things are getting interesting, just as hands are exploring places they have no business being, gloating over their mortification and knowing how embarrassed they are going to be when they have to face me in class. But never once in all my years of teaching have I ever felt sexually aroused by the sight of all that teenage flesh. It has never interested me in the slightest. On that night, however, something changed – shifted – and it has disturbed me greatly. 

What happened was this. After I had caught the sixth years I mentioned in the letter and was making my way to the Astronomy Tower, I detected a very simple Do Not Notice Charm in the corridor. Well, naturally, it had the opposite effect on me, and I had to investigate. After casting a Silencing Charm, I rounded the corner and there, as brazen as you like, were two seventh years – the boy was one of my Slytherins.

As I said, I was hot and out of breath from the previous chase, so instead of intervening immediately, I paused in the shadows, leaning against the wall and tried to calm my breathing. Meanwhile, robes were being hitched up around waists and knickers pulled down, and – I’ll say again that I took no pleasure watching the sexual act developing before me, but it suddenly struck me how those young people, without any misgivings, were freely giving themselves to one another in order to satisfy a mutual need. It is something I have never experienced, and the thought paralysed me. 

The scene is indelibly etched on my memory – the girl throwing her head back as the boy pushes her robe up over her breasts, taking her bra with it and sucking on a nipple... I made myself turn away for decency’s sake at that point, although I had already stayed longer than I should have, and that was the real reason I was so overheated by the time I arrived at the Astronomy Tower. Seeing the look on her face... It filled me with such a profound sadness that I have never made a woman arch in pleasure like that – nor am I ever likely to.

There was no way I could bring myself to commit to paper that sense of... inertia... or those morose sentiments. How could I confess that I had done something so... sordid to Hermione Granger? Just standing and... watching. Like... like...

_'Join us, Severus...'_

I said nothing, did nothing then, too, you see. I stood and stared, unable to look away. All that blood... I was sure she was beyond help. And Bella... well, let’s just say that witch had a natural talent for creating the maximum pain without killing her subject. A born torturer, Bella knew how to take her victim apart slowly, a piece at a time...

_And I did nothing._

Until she roused me from my stupor in the most unforgettable manner. For, as Lucius turned his attention to me, Granger managed to shake the Imperius Curse for a few seconds – enough for her to raise her head and bite the nearest part of Lucius Malfoy – which happened to be his left bollock. His scream brought me to my senses, and I used the diversion she had caused as the opportunity to slip away.

_‘...let me, Lucius. Please, let me.’_

_‘All in... good... time, Bella. I’ve not finished... with this... piece of filth, yet – not by... a long chalk.’_

I shudder at the memory. Such incredible bravery; she refused to give up, clinging to the last thread of life, gambling on that one final act of desperation infuriating Malfoy enough to keep her alive just that little bit longer... 

And where does all of that leave me? What conclusions can be drawn from this revelation about myself? What am I exactly? Some sort of voyeur – some pathetic peeping Tom, incapable of making any real connection with another human being? Is it any wonder I was too ashamed to write any of this? She would think me disgusting, I know, and I wouldn’t blame her because I am disgusted with myself, disgusted by my lack of propriety – that and my appalling behaviour on the Astronomy Tower, which felt so fucking _good..._ Oh, gods, I feel like my control is unravelling, and it is becoming impossible to function normally. And as for her ‘little task’... I read the last part of the letter again. Oh, yes, there’s more. To cap it all, it seems she does not think that exposing myself is a big enough challenge...

_... As a reward for your good conduct, I am allowing you one orgasm. You may choose the time, but the place must be somewhere other than your chambers, preferably outdoors..._

In other words, she wants me to wank myself off where I could be caught doing it. Wouldn’t that be a great end to a less than stellar career? This is really too much. After everything else that’s happened, I really don’t see how I’m going to be able to do this. I’m on the point of calling it a day. It was an interesting experiment, but I’m not going to risk my reputation and livelihood over it. Some things should be kept private and this is definitely one of them. I simply cannot countenance such a thing¬–

‘There was no need to snap at Poppy, Severus.’

I freeze. How did she manage to sneak up on me like that? I must be getting old. I push the letter up my sleeve before turning around to face her.

‘I am not a schoolboy, Minerva, and I resent being constantly treated as such.’ I try to keep the anger out of my voice. I do not feel like an argument, and she sounds a little tetchy. The sun reflecting off her spectacles, however, make it impossible to see her eyes, and for me to judge her mood. ‘Did you follow me out here just to tell me that?’

She purses her lips but says nothing. Evidently, there is something else.

‘Walk with me a while.’

This sounds ominous. Minerva takes my proffered arm, and we walk together in silence. She seems uneasy. Something is definitely up.

‘Severus...’ She stops and sighs before trying again. ‘Severus, I’m sorry, but I have to ask. Is everything all right? You don’t seem to be yourself lately.’

Not her, too. What’s the matter with these women? ‘Thank you for your concern, Minerva, but I am perfectly well. What makes you think otherwise?’

‘Well, the fact is... Well, Poppy and I agree that you have been acting rather... strangely of late.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’ _Has someone seen me?_ I hope my voice does not betray the rising sense of panic I’m feeling.

She sighs again. ‘You seem... You seem even more distant than usual.’ She stops and turns to face me. ‘Please don’t take that the wrong way. What I mean is, you speak less to your colleagues than ever – we never see you in the staffroom unless there’s a meeting. You are irritable, distracted, you are not eating properly and... well, to put it bluntly, Severus, we are worried about you.’

Is that all? Interfering old biddies. ‘There is nothing–’

‘And then there are those letters.’

I look at her steadily. What does she know? I’m on the point of casting _Legilimens_.

She breaks eye contact. ‘I don’t mean to pry, but are you in some kind of trouble? Can I help? If I didn’t know any better, I would have said it was a woman–’

‘Minerva, not that it’s any of your business, why should it not be?’

‘Well, I mean to say–’

‘What, exactly? That no woman would be interested in me? Is that it?’ I’ve had more than enough of this conversation.

‘No, no. I didn’t mean that at all.’ She puts her hand on my arm. ‘I’m sorry. Nothing would please me more if you had a... lady friend. It’s just that... you hardly ever go out...’ She reddens and looks away, which is probably just as well. 

I smirk at her discomfort. ‘Why this sudden interest in my love life – or lack thereof?’

‘Oh, Severus, I didn’t mean...’ She points her wand at a twig and Transfigures it into a bench. ‘Do you mind if we sit down?’ She sits but I remain standing.

‘Sit. Please. You’re giving me a crick in the neck.’ 

‘Very well.’ I sit and wait for her to spit out whatever it is that’s really on her mind – I’ve got no intention of making it any easier for her. 

Minerva stares off into the distance, seemingly at a loss for words. Finally, she collects herself . ‘There is something else, and... Oh, dear, this is so difficult.’ She sighs. ‘The fact of the matter is that over the past few months, I’ve received several letters of complaint from concerned parents about... you.’

‘What? Whose parents?’

‘It does not matter. They’re all from Muggles, who neither remember you as a teacher nor know about your reputation and status as a war hero. All they know is what their children tell them, and it’s not pretty.’ 

I am dumbfounded. ‘And what, pray tell, have the little dears been saying about me?’

She plucks out a sheaf of paper from her robe pocket and adjusts her glasses. ‘The common theme seems to be, as one parent, also a teacher incidentally, succinctly puts it, “the draconian methods utilised in the classroom by a man who sounds incapable of teaching in any other way. In short, a bully who should not be allowed anywhere near children, especially, if what”’ Minerva waves her arm airily, ‘“tells me is correct, where dangerous, if not potentially lethal substances are involved...” He goes on, but that’s the gist of it. I’m afraid that these complaints cannot be ignored, and I would be failing in my duty if I did not bring them to your attention and give you the chance to respond.’ She puts the letters back in her pocket and tucks her hands into her sleeves, obviously waiting for me to defend myself.

‘Minerva, I assure you that my teaching methods have not changed.’

She purses her lips before responding. ‘I believe you, Severus – and that is no doubt part of the problem – Let me finish. Under normal circumstances, I could live with it, but your behaviour is... erratic, and I don’t know if this is due to stress or what, but it is having an adverse effect on your temperament – inside the classroom and out. No, don’t argue, it is. Tell me, how many points did you deduct yesterday from Gryffindor alone?’

Ah, so that’s the real reason for this little tête-à-tête.

She doesn’t give me a chance to reply. ‘Well, I’ve reinstated them anyway. A hundred points for wearing squeaky shoes was a bit excessive, don’t you think, even for you?’

‘They were giving me a headache.’

She gives me a withering look. ‘Half-term is coming up, and I’m going to insist you take a week’s break – no “buts”. Get away from the castle – go somewhere you can relax and... think. I don’t want to lose you, but you can’t go on as you are.’

I cannot believe I’m hearing this. ‘Are you telling me that after all these years, you would sack me?’

‘I hope it won’t come to that, I really do. But times are changing. Muggle-born children are on the increase – and The Book shows that this is a trend set to continue. I’m afraid, war record or not, if this keeps up, I’m going to have a hard time defending you – and your teaching methods – at the next governors’ meeting.’ She shifts around on the bench and leans closer to me. ‘But more importantly, as your friend, I am concerned for _you_. Are you content – here, being a schoolmaster, I mean? You’ve never disguised the fact that you hate teaching, even though you get good results, and I would hate to have to replace you. Please don’t misunderstand me, Severus, I am thinking of you – of your future. For your sake, I want you to go away and seriously consider if remaining a teacher for the rest of your working life is really what you want to do.’

This has come like a bolt from the blue. Is she expecting me to resign? I need time to think this over. ‘Thank you, Minerva. I shall do as you ask, and in the meantime, I will attempt to be a little more... sociable.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’ She stands up abruptly as do I. ‘You can start by joining us at the Three Broomsticks next Friday. We’re one man short on the darts team.’

~ * ~ 

Minerva and I part on convivial terms in the Entrance Hall, and I make my way back to the dungeons. Once I am back in the safety of my chambers, I shed my clothes automatically, and I feel better straight away – lighter somehow. Our conversation has given me even more to think about and much cause for concern. Minerva was right about one thing, though. I do hate teaching, but it is all I know, and Hogwarts is my home. It’s true that I once had the ambition to be rich and successful – more for the recognition than anything else, but that was a long time ago. If I were to leave, I have no idea where I would go, or what I would do.

I look around my living room with fondness. My chambers have been my sanctuary for more years than I care to remember. I cannot imagine living anywhere else, and yet Minerva has made it clear that I should not take my position for granted. Would she really make me leave? I let my hand trail along the back of the sofa – the same sofa I’ve had for the best part of three decades, but it’s not mine; it belongs to Hogwarts. Nothing in this room apart from the books, in fact, belongs to me. 

I light the fire and sit on the hearth rug, hugging my knees. Is it possible for me to be content with just – _this?_ I’m not sure I can be, not anymore. A door has opened, revealing wonderful possibilities and a library, however well stocked, is not adequate reason to close it. But, must I sacrifice what I have in order to pursue what I need?

Staring into the flames, I ponder my dilemma. It would seem there is a choice to be made – assuming that this little crisis passes and I stay put: I can either stop rocking the boat, forget all about Mistress Roxanne and go back to how things were, without any hope of change for the next God knows how many years, or I can proceed with the exploration of my sexuality, hoping that once Mistress Roxanne finally gives me an appointment, these ‘little tasks’ of hers will cease, and our liaison will be confined to her establishment. I won’t have to wait much longer, surely? And, hopefully, once our sessions commence, my mood will dramatically improve, and Minerva will have less cause for complaint. If I stop now, I will only have a future of teaching dunderheads to look forward to with no outlet for my needs. I can’t see that having a good effect on my temperament in the long run. So, all in all, there seems to be only one course of action I can logically take...

~ * ~ 

I glance up and down the corridor one last time before casting a detection spell and ascending the stairs. It’s very late, and no one is about. Well, that’s one good thing. I walk quickly up the steps, my boots clicking against the stone. This should hopefully alert anyone to my presence and flush them out. Stealth is not what I’m about tonight.

As I emerge at the top, my heart is racing, both from the exertion and the anticipation of what I have to do. But I’m not taking any chances. A second detection spell confirms there is no one else here. I try to swallow my anxiety as I unclasp my cloak, but my heart is in my throat as I let it fall to the ground. The cool air assaults my skin like a thousand caresses as I will myself to move forward towards the furthest point from the door, and away from safety.

[](http://picasaweb.google.co.uk/melusin.79/NeedsMust/photo?authkey=8eEN1DAYhyo#5160158776745293906)

The tower’s pinnacle is full of shadows – hiding places for curfew breakers. I have to remind myself that I am alone, but what if...? The sound of my footsteps on the stone seems a hundred times louder than usual. What if someone is on a broom? With each step towards the parapet, my cock gets harder. This is madness, but it is also... exhilarating.

I reach my destination and look back to the door – only a few strides away, but if someone ran up the stairs, I wouldn’t have time to get to my cloak. However, the person would soon find himself on the wrong end of an Obliviate. That makes me relax ever so slightly. Looking up at the stars, I begin to breathe deeply. 

The moon chooses that moment to come out from behind a cloud, illuminating me in the archway, emphasising my nakedness. The goddess’ pale light makes my skin look ghostly, and I glance nervously over my shoulder. Feeling ugly and uncomfortable, I beseech her forgiveness for my effrontery. I can’t remember the last time I said a prayer of any sort, but the action calms me as I take the number of required deep breaths. My nerve endings tingle, and I brush my fingertips over my body, relishing the prickly sensations. Briefly, I consider masturbating and getting it over with, but I am standing three feet away from the spot where I killed Dumbledore, and I quickly dismiss that sacrilegious thought.

The moments pass; my trepidation fades a little more with each exhalation, as does the guilt for enjoying something I shouldn’t. I have passed the count of ten but feel no inclination to move. It is a beautiful night for star-gazing. The sky at night has always made me feel aware of my insignificance – a tiny speck in the infinity of the cosmos. Tonight is no exception. Almost regretfully, I turn around and unhurriedly walk back to my cloak, feeling only a strange sense of pride that I have managed to accomplish something I considered impossible a few short hours ago. My nakedness seems inconsequential; I am but a man, alone in the universe, trying to make sense of his place in it and maybe, just maybe, starting to find some peace.

Back in my chambers, I pour myself a large whisky and gulp it down. I still can’t believe I did it, and more importantly, that no one saw me. On the way back here, I also had an idea. I have decided to use the Room of Requirement tomorrow night for my... other task. It will satisfy Mistress’ instructions in a literal sense, although I doubt that was the intention. I shall not be in my rooms, but I will have the comfort of knowing that I cannot be discovered or disturbed. A very Slytherin resolution, if I say so myself.

~ * ~ 

‘You seem to be in a more cheerful mood this morning, Severus.’

I bite back a scathing retort. ‘I feel quite well, Minerva. Thank you for your concern.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. Keep it up.’

_Oh, but I intend to._

~ *** ~ 

_sub-severus,_

_You will be pleased to learn that we may be meeting sooner than I had anticipated. I shall send confirmation of the date in a few days. But now, it is time for you to begin your preparations. Go and take a good look at yourself in a full length mirror and imagine you are standing before me. Think of how to display your body in its best light. Practice standing and kneeling as illustrated in the section on ‘Presentation’ I sent you. You should go from one to the other smoothly and gracefully. Remember, practice makes perfect..._

I held my breath while I read this letter. What, no potentially arrest-worthy task for me to undertake? Although I am excited at the prospect of an appointment, this does seem a bit of an anti-climax. Leafing through her notes, I find the ones on how to stand and kneel and take them with me into the bedroom for reference. 

In front of the mirror, I stand with my hands behind my back and sigh resignedly at my reflection. _‘Think of how to display your body in its best light...’_ I’d defy anyone to find anything aesthetically pleasing about my body. It is too thin; my ribs and collarbone are prominent, as is my Adam’s apple, and my skin is the colour of chalk – except for my cock. I’ve always hated that. It looks obscene, like some pink, alien appendage that’s been stuck on as an afterthought. What will she think of it? Will I pass inspection? Is there anything about me she could possibly find attractive? I suppose that if I have such a thing as a ‘best feature’, it would be my legs, which I think are quite shapely. Or am I clutching at straws here? 

I kneel down as gracefully as I can, although my knees protest. If I had a Knut for every time I’ve had to do this... I sit back on my heels, and mimic the pose held by the sub in the picture, imagining I am on my knees before Mistress Roxanne. What will she be wearing, I wonder. I hope it's leather. And boots. Will she allow me to kiss her boots? I stay like that, facing the mirror, until my legs start to fall asleep, and I have to move. I want this so much. Please let it be soon. Please.

~ ***~ 

_sub-severus,_

_The time has come for you to present yourself to me. You will Apparate to my waiting area no later than 5 o’clock on the date below. Contained in this letter is a cock ring which I expect you to wear. Do not put it on until you are ready to leave and make sure that it is a comfortable fit, i.e. not too tight, (see my notes regarding safety). Other than this, you will wear only your cloak and boots._

_You will prepare yourself by paying special attention to your personal hygiene. I expect my subs to be clean and well groomed. You will bathe, wash your hair and shave. Ensure your nails are scrubbed and neatly trimmed, and that your breath is fresh. As well as the above, your will remove all your body hair with the exception of your eyebrows and eyelashes. And I mean ALL of it. How you do it is up to you. You will also purge your bowels, either by enema, suppositories or laxative potion. Again the choice is yours..._

I read this paragraph several times. She wants me to do _what?_

_... When you arrive, knock at the door and wait for my permission to enter. Once inside, you will stand, head bowed and await further instructions. If at any time during the session you are uncomfortable with the proceedings, you have the choice of two safewords: use SILVER if you really need a respite; I will stop and give you a chance to catch your breath. Use GOLD only if you feel unable to continue. This will stop the scene entirely. However, unless you are ill, saying ‘GOLD’ will end our arrangement permanently. I have never yet pushed a sub to that point and would consider it a serious breach of trust if I did, which is why I would deem it necessary to terminate our contract._

_Speaking of which, please sign the enclosed agreement, general disclaimer and statement of health. By signing it, you are declaring that you are physically fit and proceeding at your own risk. My fee will be twenty galleons a session paid in advance. I enclose an authorisation for you to pay by direct transfer at Gringotts._

_That is all until we meet, sub. You will not bring yourself to orgasm again until then..._

I look at the date. _Another week!_ The woman is a sadist.

~***~ 

The week drags by, but the day has finally arrived. I have scrubbed my skin to within an inch of its life – I don’t think I have ever felt so clean. I check my hands one last time for any stains, but they are spotless. She did not specify if I should wear any aftershave or cologne, but I think she would like me to smell nice, so one of my own blends, I think. Something spicy with perhaps a hint of bergamot, but subtlety is the key. I don’t want her to think I’m trying to disguise something unpleasant.

I pass my wand over my arms, ridding myself of the little hair I have there and stop. What would she do if I did not shave off all my body hair? Would I be punished? A shiver runs down my spine at the thought. Dare I? It would be a test to see if she’s as strict as she’s made out to be... I smirk at my reflection. Yes, I dare. Now, how is this thing supposed to go on...?

~*~ 

I Apparate into the small waiting area, not knowing quite what to expect, but there is no one here but me. Although carpeted and tastefully decorated, the room is devoid of furniture other than a table with a large vase of fresh flowers on it, a clock and a full length mirror on the wall. The clock says, ‘Wait.’

I pace nervously for a bit then stand in front of the mirror to make a final check of my appearance. I also take the opportunity to adjust the cock-ring, which is a little on the tight side and has rather painfully trapped some hairs. I wish now that I had shaved like she told me to, but it is too late. She won’t be pleased, I know. Apprehension rising, I pace the room again until the clock moves to, ‘Knock once.’ I hesitate, swallowing my nervousness before rapping on the door. It swings open, and the voice of my Mistress calls out, ‘Enter.’ I take a deep breath and step over the threshold into the unknown. The door closes behind me, and I am plunged into darkness.

* * *

A/N: The beautiful painting of Snape on the Astronomy Tower was a gift from the lovely, and very talented, Camillo.


	9. Preparation: Hermione

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a rough night, Hermione prepares Severus' first scene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual disclaimers apply.
> 
> Thanks as ever to my two angels, Septentrion and Darkheartwalsh for all their help and support.
> 
> Warnings for references to rape and torture in this chapter.

It's five in the morning; the house is locked down tighter than Gringotts, and as much light as it’s possible to muster with a wand floods the bathroom. A Calming Draught has stopped the shaking, but I can’t risk going back to sleep, much as I’d like to. Sucking the blood off my finger, I stare angrily at the remains of the little potion phial, lying in shards where I dropped it because I don’t trust my ability to cast ‘Reparo’. It’s _years_ since I had that particular nightmare, but I know I’d only have to shut my eyes, and I’ll be right back in there. 

‘God, I look like crap.' Huffing angrily, I wring out the flannel and impatiently dab the cold cloth against my face. This helps to soothe me a little, but doesn’t do a lot for my puffy eyes. Feeling a lot less agitated though, I take a few deep breaths and roughly pull in the belt of my dressing-gown, fighting the drowsiness that is tempting me back to bed. No, I won’t give in to it; perhaps a cup of tea...? Yes, that's a much better idea. 

Crookshanks follows me to the kitchen, mewing anxiously, sensing my distress. I’m in no mood to wait for the kettle to boil, nor for the tea leaves to brew in the pot. I grab the first mug that comes to hand, fill it with water, blast it with my wand and stick a tea bag in it. I’m out of milk, so black will have to do. The heat from the mug warms my hands as I stare out of the window and watch the first rays of the sun come up—the same dawn that’s breaking over Azkaban.

As I sip the hot tea, I can’t stop my thoughts from drifting... Lucius Malfoy. Is he awake, I wonder? Does he have anything like a conscience that keeps him up all night? I snort at the very notion. Although... he could well suffer from night terrors... but, no doubt, it would take something like the fear of losing all his wealth to make him wake up sweating. I’d be very surprised if he gave me any more thought than a house-elf. Grabbing a J-cloth, I wipe down the work-surface for something to do, trying to shake the images re-playing in my head.

The ability to dream lucidly is a useful, and often entertaining trick, and one that I’ve had since I was a child. But I can’t control _that_ dream, which is why it is all the more frightening. It is always the same: I’m running down a long corridor—a picture gallery, in fact, desperately searching for a way out. The portraits scream obscenities at me ( _Filthy, Mudblood bitch. Fucking whore..._ ) as I blindly sprint towards a door marked ‘exit’...

Malfoy steps into my path. I try to pass him, but he grabs me, and although I struggle for all I’m worth, I am no match for him... A dreadful, wailing noise: someone or something crying in the distance... He drags me through the wall. On the other side, Bellatrix Lestrange waits, holding a bloody mass in her outstretched hands, cackling wildly. She squeezes it, the blood making a puddle on the carpet, and the crying stops.

_Not a woman, not even an animal. Only a thing, Mudblood, only a thing..._

I turn and flee; her mad laughter rings in my ears as I run down the corridor. Snape is there... immovable, impassive. If only I can reach him... but Malfoy grabs me by the throat. _You have escaped me twice before, Mudblood. Never again..._

The first time I had that dream, I woke up screaming in a hospital bed. My mother was sitting by my side, her tear-stained face full of concern and her eyes all red and swollen. That scared me more than the dream, let me tell you; I had only ever seen my mother cry once—when my Gran died. I tried to speak, but my voice came out in a croak. Mum picked up a glass with a straw in it and held my head while I tried to sip some water. 

‘It will be all right, darling. It will be all right.’ 

‘Where’s Dad?’ _I want my Daddy._

‘He’s with Harry, love, and that nice black Auror with the bald head. They’re going to make sure the house is secure for you to come home. You’re safe now. Everything’s going to be fine.’

My mother has never been a convincing liar.

The Healer, when he eventually turned up, made no such attempt to spare my feelings. When he started to speak, I felt this odd sense of detachment, which, I realise now, was my mind’s way of coping with the trauma. It was like we were discussing some interesting medical case history that had nothing to do with me. ‘...we’ve managed to save your sight...’ _Oh, that’s good._ ‘...restored right kidney function...’ _Excellent, excellent._ ‘...grown back the left, and the bladder...’ _Marvellous. Isn’t magic wonderful?_ ‘... but not even magic can replicate you ovaries...’ _True. Even magic has its limits._ ‘... and as you will never be able to conceive a child, we have not replaced you uterus...’ _Agreed. Not much point in doing that, was there?_

He continued his monologue in a voice devoid of all emotion—like he had made this speech countless times, and I remember thinking in my removed state how professional he was... ‘the external scars will fade, but I’m sorry to have to tell you that they will not disappear completely, due to the Dark curses Malfoy inflicted on you...’ I nodded, and then he took a step forwards suddenly, intent on examining me, and I screeched like a banshee.

It is a dreadful irony that the time when you least want to be touched, the time when you want to crawl into a hole and shut the entire world out, is the time when you have to endure a stranger’s hand probing your most intimate places. And endure it I did because without the evidence on my body, Malfoy would never have even been brought to trial, never mind sent to Azkaban.

An involuntary shudder runs through me, and I wrap my arms across my stomach. He’s already eligible for parole. Harry tells me he’s an exemplary prisoner, and it’s likely he’ll regain his freedom in the not too distant future. I don’t know what I’ll do when that day comes—whether I will still be able to function with some degree of normality. I suppose I’ll have to cross that bridge when I come to it.

My eye catches my reflection in the window pane, and I trace my finger down the scar like I have innumerable times before. It was only with the greatest reluctance that my mother handed me a mirror when I demanded to see the damage. All I really remember thinking with any certainty when I saw the extent of the wound for the first time was that I had made a conscious choice to survive. It was a tiny nugget of strength somewhere deep inside, but I clung to it nonetheless. If a ravaged face was the price I had to pay for not letting Malfoy kill me, so be it. And yes, I healed just like they said I would, physically at any rate. No one in that hospital offered me any rape counselling, though—or any other sort of counselling for that matter, and I was discharged with a few healing potions for the residual pain and some salve for my skin—

Crookshanks puts his front paws on my legs, asking to be picked up, and so I do, burying my face in his fur. We sit down in the comfy chair next to the Aga, and Crooks puts his paws on my shoulder, purring madly. 

‘It’s okay, Crooks. I’m okay.’ He butts my hand, encouraging me to stroke him, and I sigh. ‘I suppose seeing Snape again must have something to do with the dreams, eh Crookshanks? What do you think, boy?’ He purrs in agreement. 

I'm not sure at what point during my ordeal—could have been hours, could have been days after I was taken, for all I knew—that Snape appeared or how long he stood there, watching. I thought he was a mirage as he swam into focus, or some-some wild hallucination. There was so much pain; floating in and out of consciousness, I couldn’t trust my eyes anymore. And anyway, he was supposed to be dead—like... the Lestrange woman. But there he was—gazing down at me between the ‘V’ of my spread legs, expressionless, unreadable: not a flicker of pity, or contempt or lust on his face. I didn’t particularly care what he thought of me; I was way past any feelings of shame or embarrassment at that point, but I knew he was my last and only hope. A little voice told me it was now or never: if I wanted to live, I had to act now...

_‘Join us, Severus...’_

_Lestrange. Laughing... always laughing. ‘... your breath... Severus... receiving end..., pet?’_

Snape said nothing. He was like a statue, totally impassive, but I knew he had been loyal to Dumbledore—a fact which had yet to be made public. Perhaps my tormentors were unaware of it, too? And so I locked eyes with him, raised my head and bit Malfoy as hard as I could. Malfoy’s scream was music to my ears, but the slicing hex that blinded in me in one eye forced me to let go, and I passed out from the pain. 

Between then and the arrival of the Aurors, they really went to town, tearing me apart from the inside out—or so it felt like—but I hung on, _a little bit longer... just a bit longer_ , refusing to give up hope. There was a fight; Bellatrix Lestrange was killed—for real that time. I vaguely remember a green flash and strong arms picking me up, although I could just as easily have been flying. I was so close to death...

The pain eased a little. _‘Look after her, Potter.’_ Snape. He’d sent his Patronus to Harry, (who’d rushed to his summons with reinforcements), fought alongside him and then surrendered his wand—much to the surprise and delight of the Aurors, who no doubt expected to gain an early promotion out of it...

As soon as I was sufficiently recovered, I asked to see Snape—not just to thank him for saving my life or even to thank him for all he'd done for us over the years, but to give him a show of support in front of the vulture otherwise known as Rita Skeeter. By that time, he was being held at the Ministry, pending trial. There was no way I could leave the house on my own, though, so Harry escorted me. It was the first of three public appearances I made before I began hiding my disfigurement—the other two being Snape’s, and later Malfoy’s, trial.

And Gods were they three horrible experiences I would love to stick in a Pensieve and forget all about. Have you any idea how much people stare when you have something wrong with your face? They can’t help it; it’s how we recognise one another, after all. If something is amiss or out of place, our eyes are drawn to the imperfection immediately. My injuries really brought it home to me just how much we are all unconsciously judged by our looks: you see horror, curiosity, and worst of all, pity reflected back at you. At a time when I had not even began to heal mentally or emotionally, at a time when I only ventured out of doors to see justice served, it was very nearly too much for me. When I look back, I’m amazed I ever left the house again.

Anyway, that aside, in all fairness to Kingsley, he made sure Snape was well treated. Although, as he had to be seen to be acting impartially, Kingsley couldn't just place him under house arrest as he would have liked, but he did ignore the calls to send him to Azkaban. In addition, he checked daily that Snape was being fed properly, had fresh water, allowed access to a shower and so on—and he didn't look in bad shape when I eventually plucked up the courage to visit. But Snape's reaction to my injuries shocked me to the core—he tried to hide it, but he wasn’t quick enough. God help me, even Severus sodding Snape found me repulsive! I felt a surge of panic rising in me and the taste of bile in my throat as the walls started to close in. I had to get out of there before I fainted: I only just about managed to thank him for saving my life as I turned to leave—

‘Ouch. Watch your claws, Crooks. Settle down, or you can sleep on the floor.’ Not in the least bit contrite, the furry pest butts his head against my chin before curling up on my lap. Sighing, I give his ears a scratch. He adores that.

Where was I? Oh, yes. Snape's trial... What a circus that was... Everything came out then, of course—the spying, the manipulation... God knows how he'd managed to survive so long, but by the end, the wizarding world was not left in any doubt as to the debt it owed Severus Snape. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Harry look so relieved as he did the day Snape left the court a free man. I saw him briefly one more time at Malfoy’s trial, but we did not speak. He went quietly back to teaching, and that was the last I heard of him. As for me... I went to live with my parents and began to... ah... pick up... the pieces...

~ * ~ 

_Crookshanks?_ I... Wha-what's the time? I must have slept... Oh dear, it's later than I thought. By the time I have a shower and something to eat, it will be time to Apparate to London. There’s a scene to be prepared for a certain novice sub, preparations to be made; I have to get into the part. I’ve a feeling that, one way or another, this day is going to be a memorable one.

~ * ~ 

Wand in hand with two hours to spare, I Apparate to my flat in Diagon Alley. As usual, there are several bouquets of flowers from devoted clients (and a few from the desperate who live in hope of an interview) waiting for me on the doorstep. I conjure some vases for the prettiest of them, setting the biggest on the table in the waiting area and the others on the window sills in the living room, then Banish the rest. At least my subs know better than to send me jasmine. 

Tutting at the dust bunnies that have gathered in my absence, I set about casting some basic housekeeping spells; the place has to be thoroughly cleaned before I can even think about creating my dungeon playground. Funnily enough, I actually enjoy this part; it's quite a contemplative, cathartic process. As the flat undergoes its transformation, I mentally prepare myself for the activities to come, letting Hermione fade into the background and allowing Mistress Roxanne to take centre stage. It's inevitably a little nerve-wracking, though—the first scene with a new sub, testing the waters, so to speak, and I do want our first encounter to be something he will always remember. Naturally, I have a pretty good idea of how I want the session to progress, but, having said that, things never go exactly to script in my experience. Better to be flexible and allow things to develop naturally rather than stick rigidly to a set plan, I always find. Housework done, another flick of my wand in the direction of the windows draws the heavy velvet curtains, blocking out what's left of the daylight. 

I light the candles hurriedly before tackling my next task—putting my worktable in order. Sometimes I wish I wasn't so fastidious in nature, but I've been a perfectionist since I was a child, and I do like to see the tools of my trade laid out... just so. Biting my lip, I adjust the handles of the floggers infinitesimally so they line up exactly. Perfect! 

For reasons of hygiene, I retain separate, identical toy-boxes for each client: these contain the items that are for their personal, that is to say, intimate, use. Summoning Sn- ... sub-severus', I remove most of the contents, placing each piece carefully in its allotted position, then Scourgify everything on the table. There. Neat, symmetrical and, most importantly, clean. 

The number and variety of toys may look a little daunting to the untrained eye, I suppose, but there's no harm in instilling a little bit of fear. I'm not going to use everything I've placed here—some things are just to create a sense of drama—but the layout is always the same, no matter what the customer's stated fetishes may be, since experience has shown time and again that many of the hard limits a sub negotiates at the beginning of his journey into submission often blur as his trust in me, and his confidence in himself, grows. I've learnt over the years that it's best to be prepared for every eventuality from the outset. So, on the left side of the table are such delights as the plugs, clamps, sounds, and dildos that he will soon become... acquainted with, and to their right... I run my fingers lightly over the various whips, floggers, crops, canes and so on which I have gathered over the years. Most of these will be used in contact play at some point, but I always like to keep one back solely for the correction of minor transgressions, one that the sub will instantly recognise as his punishment implement. I haven't quite decided what sub-severus' will be yet, although anything involving leather is out; a sub doesn't get disciplined with something he finds pleasurable—at least not in my establishment. And... oh, yes. I mustn't forget that while he may be a novice to submission, he is no stranger to pain. He'll be gagging for a whipping, so... Smiling, I stroke my rabbit fur mit. He won't be expecting _this_.

I scan the table, going over my disciplinary options yet again, trying to make a final selection. There are only three things I can realistically choose from: a wooden paddle—good for a nice hard spanking, but needs a lot of effort on my part to make it really hurt; the long cane—efficient, but rather clichéd for a schoolmaster, I think; and a shorter, thicker but nicely flexible rod—effective, precise and easier to control. It's such a shame I can't use my favourite riding crop, though. Sighing, I pick it up, enjoying the familiar, reassuring feel of the smooth wooden handle in the palm of my hand. If anything, I suppose this could be called my signature implement—the one I keep by my side always, and which every sub to grace my premises has felt on his buttocks at one time or another. This goes next to my chair in readiness for later. Finally, I replace the lid on the toy-box, which now only contains a standard training collar and a set of matching leather wrist and ankle cuffs, and take it over to the small table near the door. I glance at the clock. Forty minutes to Showtime. I'd better get a move on.

The flat's bedroom contains a large bed, a wardrobe with a full length mirror on the door and a dressing table. Functional but rather nondescript. Of course, I’ve never slept in this room, but my clients don't need to know that. It is something for them to aspire to—pleasing me enough to be allowed inside the inner sanctum, to see 'my bed', and if they are especially good boys, to be tied to the bedposts. It will be a long time before sub-severus earns that privilege. Grinning at the thought, I quickly shed my clothes and pack them neatly away for later. 

Even though I showered before leaving home, I still cast a few cleansing charms to rid myself of any lingering traces of body odour. Undoubtedly, there are men who prefer, how can I put it, the more natural bodily scents, but I am a stickler for hygiene. I do not like to smell of anything whether it is natural or artificial; I certainly don't ever use perfume or any product that might rub off inadvertently on a customer—that would be totally unprofessional seeing as these men often have wives to go home to. No, I set a high standard from the beginning (I want my clients to come back for more, after all), and I expect nothing less from them. When all is said and done, paying meticulous attention to one's personal cleanliness is simply a common courtesy between two virtual strangers indulging in intimate contact.

Now for my costume. Dressing the part correctly is vital; in a way, the costume _is_ Mistress Roxanne. A leather-clad Domme is what they all want to see, not mousy old me, but having said that, I do not dress to please the client: I dress to please myself. I pick out a tight fitting corseted bodice, laced up the back, which makes my normally modest cleavage look very impressive, if I say so myself. My waist is naturally quite small, but the corset pulls it in even further, creating the desired hour-glass shape. Colourwise, I tend to avoid a lot of black as it makes my skin look washed out. I like green, but I don’t want Snape thinking I’m wearing his house colours—and to that end, red it out as well. I settle for a deep indigo blue and Charm the bodice as such, then put on a matching pair of (modest) knickers. I don't think I'll give him stockings and suspenders today—he can have that to look forward to. 

Boots, naturally, are essential. They lend and air of authority to the proceedings, and as I'm not that tall, the heels give me added confidence. And, I think a short skirt today. Yes, not bad. As for my hair... I try out a few colours. Ash blonde is a good look and goes well with indigo, but perhaps it's a little too soft and girly. In the end, I decide on a deep mahogany. 

Sitting at the dressing table, the last of Hermione Granger disappears behind the glamour, and I apply the final touches to my face. I tend not to go overboard on make-up—I don't want to look like a tart, and I don't need to hide behind a mask—my glamour already provides me with one, but somehow I manage to apply more eye-liner than I normally would, out of nervousness, most likely, and end up looking like a panda. I have to Charm it off and start again. As soon as I'm happy with my face, I check my appearance one last time in the full-length mirror and, nodding in satisfaction, put on my elbow length gloves. Once on, they shrink to fit like a second skin, giving me remarkable sensitivity while maintaining a barrier between me and the client—keeping contact to a minimum. There. All done. I wink at the woman in the mirror, and Mistress Roxanne winks back.

Returning to the playroom, I double-check everything is as it should be. And... yep, I think that's about it... A few last minute adjustments to my table, and I'm ready for action. All that’s missing is my sub.

Ah, here we go. The pop of Apparition outside announces his arrival. He’s a bit early, but no matter; I would have made him wait, anyway. I walk over to the connecting wall and observe him through the two-way mirror. Oh, he looks so nervous; I would never have believed it. As I watch him restlessly pacing the room, I start doubting my abilities to pull this off. His interview and letters have led me to make certain assumptions about him—and he about me, but what if I'm really wide of the mark? I can only make an educated guess at how truly submissive in nature he will turn out to be. Could he be only playing at this? He's an accomplished actor; there's even a chance he might just be a vanilla man with a leather fetish. But I've a nagging suspicion... Does he have a real desire to serve, to submit to my every whim, I wonder? He believes that he's a masochist—a true pain-slut, but I'm not entirely convinced of that, either... Gods, what if I have a full out submissive here—an honest to God natural slave? Sighing, I wonder why I care.

Snape looks into the mirror, turning from side to side, examining his appearance. He shakes his head and turns away, fiddling with something under his cloak... Oh, the cock-ring. I watch him pace the room some more; he's becoming increasingly agitated, now, and I can't help but grin at his discomfort. Of course, I deliberately do not provide chairs in the waiting room for this reason—it keeps the sub on edge and unable to relax. But... I think he’s suffered enough. I walk over to my chair and sit down, awaiting his knock. With my heart beating wildly, I extinguish the candles, take a deep breath and command him to enter.


	10. First Session: Severus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus has his longed for appointment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual disclaimers apply.
> 
> Thanks as ever to my two angels, Septentrion and Darkheartwalsh for all their help and support.
> 
> Warnings: BDSM, humiliation and anal play.

I am used to darkness. It has been my friend and companion since childhood. While my night vision is excellent, however, I cannot see in pitch blackness. It is closing in around me, smothering me like a velvet shroud, claustrophobic in its proximity. Instinctively, my other senses assess the danger, and my fingers close automatically around my wand. I sniff the air, and a scent of... violets? The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, and I know I am not alone. I cannot hear anything, but she is near; I can feel her. What game is she playing?

But I dare not move. I stand with my head bowed as instructed, and wait for—I don't know how long. It seems like an eternity. I must be patient; this may be some sort of test. As I ponder that probability, an area about three feet in diameter is illuminated by candlelight just in front of me. I hear the sound of... heels clicking. Slow footsteps echo. I can’t quite make out where they are coming from—

‘Step into the light, sub. Stand where I can see you.’

Keeping my head bowed, I take two short strides into the circle. From the direction of her voice, I now know that she is somewhere slightly to the right of me. 

_One o’clock? No, two._ I feel my heart begin to race.

‘Remove your cloak.’

It is hard not to react to the command by turning my head towards her. This is it. The moment I have both longed for and dreaded. _Don’t laugh at me. Please don’t laugh at me._ I reach for the clasp of my cloak and freeze. What if she is not alone? What if her school friends—?

‘If you don’t want to do this, you know where the door is.’

But I do want to do this. My cock is straining against the cock-ring, hard and aching. I remove my cloak and start to fold it as the spotlight expands to reveal a wooden chair and a low table with a box on it.

_I wonder what...?_

‘And your boots.’

I pull them off quickly and put them under the chair. Lastly, I relinquish my wand and place it on top of my cloak before resuming my previous position.

Hands behind my back, I suffer her silent inspection. _Why won’t she show herself? Is it because I have been disobedient? What if she sends me away? Oh, why didn’t I shave like she told me to? Stupid, stupid, stupid..._ To my embarrassment, I realise I am shaking. _Say something... please say something... anything. I’m sorry, so sorry..._

There is a heavy sigh to my right. She sounds disappointed. Why am I surprised? Did I think she would be pleased at the sight of my ugly old body? She wouldn’t even be looking at me if I wasn’t paying her to do it.

A rustle of fabric, and she steps into the light, by my side. _I mustn’t look. I mustn’t look._ Staring at the floor, I use my peripheral vision—a handy ploy I learned in my spying days—to view my immediate surroundings, and I see a pair of long, leather boots on a pair of shapely legs. She moves slowly— _click...click_ —deliberately, purposefully until she is facing me and sighs again. My cock swells against its confinement once more.

‘Is your penis usually that colour or is that cock-ring too tight?’

I am so ashamed. Hideous thing. ‘Yes, Mistress, the colour is quite normal.’

‘Really? Oh, well... Can’t be helped, I suppose.’

She makes a tutting noise but remains where she is, tapping her hand against her thigh—her gloved hand. _Oh, Merlin, leather gloves..._ She still hasn’t said anything about the hair. _Why hasn’t she said anything about the hair?_ Surely she won’t let me get away with it? Suddenly, she turns on her heel and walks away from me. I risk raising my head slightly and try not to gasp at the sight. She is wearing a short skirt that barely covers her arse with some kind of corset cinched in tightly at the waist, which serves to emphasise the curve of her swaying hips. At the top, where the laces are not fully tightened, is a V of perfect skin between the shoulder blades. It is one of the most erotic sights I have ever seen. I wonder what that skin feels like, tastes like. I want to lick it. I want to touch... will she let me touch? No, unlikely. I have done nothing to earn such an indulgence. And what has she done to her hair? Is it a wig? 

Mesmerised, I watch her move away from me, her way lit by candles as she walks. She stops in front of a chair on a raised dais, and I lower my eyes again quickly, just in time before she spins around and sits down.

‘You many approach me.’

 _Thank you. Oh, thank you._ I am on my knees crawling towards her before I have time to think. I keep my eyes firmly on her feet, although I desperately want to look at her face.

‘Kiss my boots.’

She has not given me permission to touch, so I must only use my mouth. As her legs are crossed, I kiss the foot that is in the air. _Soft, beautifully soft._ The leather is exquisite— possibly Italian; its seductive smell assaults my nostrils—and spotlessly clean, too. Judging by the state of the sole, these boots have never been worn outdoors, but they could be covered in mud, and I would find them equally appealing. I suck the spike of the heel, and she turns her foot this way and that so I may more easily kiss the ankle. I would love to lick the entire length of it to the point where it meets her thigh and higher... I inhale, trying to smell some hint of her female scent, but there is barely a trace. When I try to lick that delightful curve just above the heel, she puts her foot on the floor and offers me the other one, giving me a glimpse of a blue, lace-clad heaven I will never know. The supple leather is so fine I can see the outline of her toes through it. And, much as I love leather, I cannot help but wonder what it would be like to suck them... She uncrosses her legs, and I assume she wishes me to stop. So, I do.

‘Thank you, Mistress Roxanne.’

Without a word, she stands up, and with downcast eyes, I watch her walk out of my line of vision. The skin-tight boots show off her ankles and calves to perfection. Quite, quite, lovely...

‘Repeat the instructions I sent you in my owl.’

 _Oh, yess._ A delightful shiver runs down my spine. She is toying with me. I know I should beg her forgiveness for my disobedience right away, but I can’t help but goad her a little. 

She’s reaching for her crop... ah, I wondered what that little triangle of leather would feel like. It seems I may soon find out.

‘You are trying my patience.’

‘I-I was to remove all my body hair, Mistress.’ I hope the tremor in my voice is masking my excitement.

She walks around me, very deliberately... _heel-toe, heel-toe._ Mesmerising...

‘But, you haven’t, have you? Did you not do it, perhaps, in the hope that I might punish you?’

I am about to deny her accusation when the crop whooshes past my ear, taking my breath away. The time for games is over. ‘Yes, Mistress.’ _Please._

‘And, so I shall, if only for your impudence...’

I can feel my heart hammering in my chest. _The crop. Please let it be the crop—_

‘... But... maybe not _quite_ in the way you would like. Stand up.’

I scramble to my feet, not noticing the wand in her hand until it is too late. Ropes. Magical, silken ropes surround my wrists and ankles, pulling my arms up and out and spreading my legs wide. I feel something solid behind me as I am tilted slightly backwards and off balance, my feet losing contact with the floor. The structure supports my weight as the ropes attach themselves to it, and I flex my wrists, testing the efficiency of my bindings. They tighten further. Merlin, she's good; even with my wand, I would have difficulty freeing myself. But, surely, if I am to be punished, shouldn't I be facing the other way? 

Swallowing a rising sense of panic-tinged excitement, my head jerks reflexively as the tip of her wand flashes past my eyes. _I thought she said no magic..._ Oh... Laughing, she makes quick work of the hair under my arms. She's standing very close, now; I can feel her breath on my skin as she methodically moves the wand, the shaving spell prickling like pins and needles as it passes ever so slowly down my leg to the calf and then up to my groin and-and her face is level with my cock! My balls tighten; if I moved my hips slightly, it would touch her, but that would really be asking for trouble. While I am considering the consequences of such an action, she shaves my other leg, then moves away from me slightly before removing the small patch of hair on my chest. But... Why has she left—?

'You know your safe words?'

'Yes, Mistress.' I glance at her briefly. She has rather a nasty smile on her face. 

'Excellent. Now what shall we do about all this?'

Without any preamble, she slides her fingers through my short and curlies... _Gods, that's_ —'Ow-OWW!'

'Shall I get a pair of tweezers and pull them out one by one, hmm?'

_Fucking hell!_

'Would you like that?' 

I clench my jaw, trying not to scream at the pain of hair being ripped off my balls, but to no avail.

'I asked you a question, you worthless piece of shit.'

 _Oh, my fucking God, that hurts._ 'No, Mistress, please... no.' 

She pauses, winding her fingers through my pubes. _Twisting, teasing._ I relax, hoping she may have taken pity on me, but no such luck. She yanks down hard suddenly, tearing out what feels like a large clump of hair. The pain is excruciating. Then, mercifully, she lets go.

'When I tell you to do something, you do it. Understand?'

 _Worthless, worthless._ Trying to regain my breath, I barely manage a reply, forgetting to address her correctly as I blink back the tears. She walks behind me and whacks the part of my arse not protected by the cross. A hard, stinging smack to the lower buttocks—rather too close to my balls for comfort.

‘Yes, what?’

‘Yes, Mistress.’

I deserved it, though. My cock surges against the cock-ring, fearing where the next blow will land, and I close my eyes, lost in the bliss of anticipation—so lost, in fact, I miss her going down on her knees. _What is she...?_ She grabs a handful of my pubes again, which is when I see the glint of steel in the candlelight. _Oh, shit!_

'Look away or I shall blindfold you.'

I tear my eyes away and bite my lip as she pulls and snips. The blades of the scissors brush against my skin; I dare not move a muscle for fear of being cut, but the effort of remaining completely still is making me tremble. Eventually, she stops, but my relief turns to dread when I hear an all too familiar Summoning spell.

‘Thought I’d do it with a Charm, didn’t you? Well, it just goes to show how wrong you can be. Maybe next time, you won’t be so eager to ignore my instructions.’

At the sight of the cut-throat razor, I consider begging, but the words stick in my throat. Time seems to slow as I watch her swirl the shaving brush in the bowl of soap; she doesn't appear to be in any hurry. At the first warm caress of bristle around my shaft, I close my eyes. If it were not confined, I would shoot my load over her face. She lifts my scrotum to soap underneath, and soon my entire groin covered in lather—apart from my cock, which feels rather cold and... neglected. Hearing the clunk of the brush as she puts it in the bowl, I take a deep breath and brace myself. With one hand on my hip, she touches the blade to the crease of my thigh but stops when I shiver. In one fluid movement, she drags the razor firmly downwards. Biting my bottom lip even harder, I keep my breathing shallow, as she scrapes away, in an effort to keep as still as humanly possible. She moves the cockring to get at the hair underneath; my cock twitches, desperate for any sort of contact. _Touch me, please, Mistress, please_. My knees are turning to jelly, and despite my best efforts, I start to tremble as the razor gets closer to my bollocks. I want to come so badly... A groan escapes.

'Be quiet! You don't want to disturb my concentration, now, do you?'

'No... Mistress.' I most certainly do not.

Sweat is running down my chest, and I suck in a breath, determined to suffer in silence, despite the fact that a witch with very good reason to hate me is taking a lethally sharp implement to my balls. She's stretching the skin, now, with the thumb and forefinger of her left hand, while making short scrapes in between. I have to grind my teeth to stop myself from moaning in pleasure at this sweet, dangerous torment, but I can't stop a sigh escaping when she drops the razor in the bowl for the last time. Looking at me sternly, she picks up a warm damp towel and wipes away the last of the soapy residue. The air cools rapidly around my groin when she finishes—an odd sensation as the rest of my body feels like it's on fire. At least Mistress looks pleased with the result.

'Much better. I like to be able to see my toys before I play with them. You are never to hide them from me again.' 

She grabs my scrotum roughly and twists. _Pain. Exquisite, delicious, pain._ I try not to smile.

Her voice penetrates through my little bubble of pleasure. 'Do I make myself clear?'

I struggle to focus enough to reply. 'Yes, Mistress. Perfectly.'

‘Good. Now, for creating unnecessary work for me, I am going to give you thirty with the crop. You will count.’

My support vanishes, and I struggle to regain my footing. The ropes on my wrists pull upwards; I feel the stretch through my ribcage as I am almost lifted off the floor. Almost. Before my mind has registered the change, the first blow lands on my buttocks.

'One, Mistress.'

I resist the urge to wriggle away from the onslaught, having disgraced myself enough in her eyes for one day. Against all instinct I keep still, presenting my arse for punishment like the obedient sub I long to be.

'Six, Mistress.'

She's not taking any prisoners; she strikes hard and rhythmically, but I quickly realise there is control and precision in her technique. This bears no resemblance to the frenzied whipping I have experienced in the past.

'Twelve, Mistress.'

 _Left. Right. Two apiece..._ Cleansing, searing pain rocketing up my spine, and my mind starts to drift. I have to concentrate on the count to keep myself grounded.

'Twenty... Mistress.'

She doesn't let up, but she could go harder on me. _More... Please, Mistress, harder_... but it is not my place to make demands; I must be satisfied with whatever she sees fit to give me. Glancing down, I see a long strand of spunk hanging off my cock. I can’t hold back much longer.

'Thirty, Mistress. Thank you, Mistress.'

As soon as the last blow falls, the ropes disappear, and I collapse to the floor, panting, basking in an endorphin induced haze. She orders me to lean forward and spread my buttocks, and my hands move to obey of their own accord. Wincing, I pull my tenderised cheeks apart. There's the prickle of the shaving spell again as she disposes of the hair around my ring... I am commanded not to move, but the thought hadn't even occurred to me. I would hold this position all night if it pleased her. Then, she moves away from me, and I feel an inexplicable sense of loss. Of abandonment. I almost cry out, but then I hear the sound of her stiletto heels approaching, and she kneels behind me.

Something icy cold touches my anus and I jump. She laughs and tells me to relax as she gently circles my hole with her finger then presses against it. I force myself to comply, and she eases it further in—twisting, turning—smooth, slippery leather stroking my rectum. A second soon joins it, _mustn't clench, musn't..._ , stretching and spreading my arsehole wider as she moves them back and fore... She touches my prostate, and the effect is electric. I have to grit my teeth and think of Albus fucking Alastor Moody to ease the pressure of the cock-ring... _Oh, that is so..._

'Tell me, sub-Severus,' she asks. 'Have you ever been buggered?'

'No, Mistress,' I manage to grind out.

She seems to find my answer highly amusing. 'Well, guess what?' 

Her fingers are gone, leaving me... empty. But before I have a chance wonder why that should be, something presses against my arse again—something very hard, definitely not a finger. Oh, no, not that. I'm not ready for _that_. But she is relentless. I try not to resist, but it's unpleasant and it _hurts_ —so much so, my safeword is on the tip of my tongue. _Silver, just say silver, and she will stop_ , but I'm afraid she thinks so little of me already. _Worthless, worthless._ I cannot give up now. _Endure. I must endure..._

Groaning, I push against the invading object, wanting and not wanting to take it. It can't get any wider surely? But it does. A bit. Then... it's in, and my sphincter closes around the base. A final tap on the end, and Mistress gets up without another word and moves away from me. Turning my head slightly, I watch her feet as she walks back to her chair, then the lights dim, cutting me off from her, and I am left alone, illuminated by a small pool of light. _Worthless, worthless, worthless..._

Minutes pass in silence, but I dare not move even though that awful feeling of abandonment has returned. The thought that she might not want anything further to do with me inexplicably brings me close to tears. This is unbearable. _Please, say something. I'll do anything you ask of me. Anything. Please, please..._

'Come here.'

The way is lit to her chair once more as I gratefully crawl towards her, the thing in my arse shifting with every movement. My cock is leaking profusely now; I don’t want to think how desperate and pathetic I must look to her. Sitting up isn't easy, either; the plug or whatever it is presses hard against my prostate, but I do the best I can, spreading my knees wide like I practiced in front of the mirror and trying to ignore it as much as possible. 

Mistress leans forward, sticking the riding crop under my chin and lifting my head up. Inadvertently, I raise my eyes to hers without permission. To my surprise, I realise she is Occluding—does she really think I would invade her mind? I would never presume... She's looking into my eyes now, searching my soul, and I feel like I'm being stripped to the bone under her gaze. There is nowhere to hide. Nowhere.

'When was the last time you had an orgasm?'

Nervously, I reply, 'Ten days ago, Mistress.'

She raises an eyebrow. 'You have not masturbated, as I instructed, since then?'

'No, Mistress. I have done as you asked.' _Does she doubt me?_ I am devastated that she could think I have cheated—

'I see.' 

She looks far from pleased. I don't understand—

'You are willing to follow my instructions so long as you can pick and choose which ones. Is that it?'

Swallowing hard, I open my mouth to apologise, but she doesn’t give me the chance.

' _That_ is not acceptable,' she snarls. 'I will not waste my time on scumbags like you who think they can do what the hell they please. You have disappointed me greatly.'

I avert my eyes feeling utterly wretched. 'I'm sorry I disobeyed you, Mistress. It will not happen again.' _Worthless, worthless..._

'No, it most assuredly will not.' Her tone is hard. Lowering the crop, she sits back in her chair.

I should say something, but speaking without permission will only make matters worse. I have let her down. How could I have been so stupid to think—?

'Remove the cock-ring and wank for me.'

Shocked, I look at her directly, unable to believe my ears. Hesitantly, I release my cock from its prison. 

'Keep your eyes down—no, on second thoughts, keep looking at me.'

Locking eyes with her, I grasp my cock and freeze. I don’t think I can do this.

'Well, what are you waiting for? I gave you an order.'

Cupping my balls with my left hand, I start pumping my cock. She's laughing at me. Hermione Granger is watching me wanking and laughing at me. But I don't care, sad old pervert that I am. It's been too long. She leans forward again, thrusting her tits out, and the thought of squirting all over them... _gods, fuck_... ‘Oh _yes!’_

Lungs heaving, I struggle to regain my composure and not collapse in a boneless heap at her feet. There's a wave of magic, and the mess I've made over my hands and thighs disappears. I'm about to thank her when she tells me to go. I look at her in bewilderment. My time is not yet up.

'Mistress?' 

'I am cutting this session short. This is your punishment for your disobedience.'

But I thought I had been—

'However, I am feeling generous. You may return at the same time next week.'

I consider begging her to reconsider, but I don't think there would be much point, and I don't want to anger her further.

'And... you are to wear that plug day and night, removing it only to defecate. Understand?'

I'm not going to argue. 'Yes, Mistress.'

And that seems to be that. I have been dismissed. Getting to my feet, I try to walk towards the door with as much dignity as I can muster—not an easy feat for someone with a plug up his arse. 

'Good. If you disobey me again, there will not be a third time. I want you to be perfectly clear on this.'

Nodding, I wrap my cloak around me. 'I will not make the same mistake again, Mistress.' Grabbing my wand and boots, I take one last look at her, almost forgetting to bow before I Disapparate.

~ * ~ 

Arriving in my living room at Spinner’s End, I drop my boots and wearily fall to my hands and knees on the rug. My mind is still reeling, trying to come to terms, trying to take it all in. I unfasten my cloak and push it off, letting it drop behind me.

Gods, my skin is sore. I had the presence of mind to prepare some salves and potions for the pain and any skin damage in advance, of course—expecting the worst is a habit that my life once depended on. But unlike the times when I had to deal regularly with spell-induced wounds or swallow pain relief for the Cruciatus curse, I don’t want to wipe away the evidence of this encounter. Instead, I smack the bruised skin a few times, reliving the experience, determined to commit it all to memory. 

My knees have had it, but I’m not sure if I can sit down. A bit gingerly, I lie on my side, curling up in a foetal position and pull my cloak over me. I am all too aware how extremely fortunate I am she decided to give me another chance; she could so easily have terminated our agreement, and I would have had only myself to blame. But, there will be plenty of time for me to think about my mistakes—and how to make sure I do better next time. Right now, though, I only want to remember the sensation of a leather-clad hand caressing my body and the vision of a siren in thigh-high boots and a corset. Definitely one for the Pensieve.

Yawning, I feel myself drifting off to sleep. By fuck, that was twenty Galleons well spent of anybody’s money.


	11. Reflections: Hermione

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reflections after the event and some bad news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Usual disclaimers apply.  
> Please note that the following chapters have not been beta'd

His presence hangs in the air, so heavy it’s almost tangible. I realise after what seems like hours that I’m holding my breath, the blood in my ears pounding out the seconds as I sit, frozen to my chair in the gloom, half-expecting him to suddenly reappear in a flurry of black robes and hex me into oblivion. Even though good sense tells me this is extremely unlikely: my wards are as good as impenetrable. 

Yet, my eyes remain fixed on the spot he’s just vacated, my wand digging painfully into my hand. Nothing would surprise me about that man or his capabilities. Nothing… 

_Oh, God. What if he recognised me?_

A deafening clatter breaks the silence as the crop slides off the chair and hits the floor, finally shocking me out of my stupor. So much for meticulous planning, so much for testing the waters…

Idiot. His first scene could have been much more rewarding if he hadn’t tried to outmanoeuvre me. Oh, well, if he wants to squander his money, that’s his problem, not mine. There won’t be a third chance, that’s for certain. No skin off my nose if he doesn’t come back for more. I’ve got better things to do with my time.

Then why am I shaking?

Breathe, Hermione, and stop being so paranoid. You know there’s no way he could have seen past the glamour. You’d be dead. And he’ll come back; you know he will—and when he does, he’ll be full of remorse and desperate to prove what a good little sub he can be.

But still… I shouldn’t have thrown him out on his ear, not without a proper cooling off period, anyway—even if he was wilfully disobedient. It was terribly unprofessional of me. And I hadn’t intended starting his anal training quite so… forcefully, either. I like to make my novice subs quiver in anticipation, you see—keep up the torment over several weeks— _Touching, teasing. Will I, won’t I?_ —letting the tension build; make them fear it. Make them want it. So, why did I…?

He got to me. 

The bastard got to me. 

I bring the lights up quickly and aim my wand at the windows to let in some much needed fresh air and to get rid of the stink of male sweat and other bodily fluids. The curtains billow inwards, wafting the scent of violets towards me, but I remain in my seat, ignoring the chill.

What the _hell_ happened?

My gloves get a hurried _Scourgify_ while I ponder the question. Did I lose control of the scene? If so, when? Was I too much in character to notice? I need to move in order to think; this has never, ever, happened before. In a whirl of frenzied wand-waving, I start putting the room to rights like a creature possessed: the table is cleared, Snape’s personal items stored away in his box, the dungeon transformed back to a sitting room, and all the while I’m analysing the events of the past three-quarters of an hour and trying to make sense of them. A few moments later, and I’m leaning against my desk, panting.

O-kay… Let’s go over this one more time… Snape came here with the intention of testing me, obviously, but he was fully prepared to take the consequences—excited by the prospect, even. There was no protest, no fight when I disciplined him—the only show of fear was when he saw the razor—that was a small triumph, I suppose. Then, he… absorbed the beating I meted out like some life-giving energy. Yes… he had me where he wanted me there, which was more than a little galling, I have to admit. But he hadn’t anticipated the plug. Seeing him with his cheeks spread like that… He wasn’t in charge of the proceedings, then, was he? Oh, no. That reasserted my authority, all right. And he was so embarrassed when I made him wank himself off… Hmm… All in all, I think I more than evened the score. And he should be in no doubt now that I won’t tolerate him trying to top from the bottom in future.

The thumping in my chest has subsided somewhat by the time I reach into the top drawer of my desk and extract his case file. It’s usual practice for me to write down my impressions of a scene while they are still fresh in my memory. It rounds off the session nicely, I find, collecting my thoughts on paper and mentally closing the door on the client. 

‘Right, Quill, take a dictation…’ My favourite Dicto Quill (the one with the pink ostrich plume) jumps to attention, dips its nib into the inkwell and rises into the air, quivering expectantly, as I arrange my notes on the desk. So, what have we learned today about one Severus Snape?

Hmm… Let’s see… ‘Physical attributes…’ I tap the appropriate parchment for the quill’s benefit and wait for it to scratch out the title.

‘General Condition: (underline). Painfully thin, middle-aged wizard of slightly above average height. Very pale…’ The quill hovers patiently as I pause to recall my first sight of his naked body. ‘… apart from his penis… Skin in surprisingly good condition. No obvious scarring, moles or birthmarks. Does not appear to bruise easily. Paragraph.’

The quill makes an unnecessary scrolly embellishment under the word ‘penis’. Why, I’ve no idea.

‘Musculature: best described as wiry. Prior knowledge presupposes a high tolerance to pain…’ I smile to myself; it’s going to be fun discovering his more… tender spots. Which brings me to…. ‘Nipples: fairly small. Scrotum: unusually tight and high for a man of his age. Needs work. Penis:…’ The quill does the scrolly thing again. I’m going to have to check its charm tomorrow. ‘… pink with prominent veins. Strong erectile function…’ No problems in that department, I don’t think. ‘Um…New Heading, Quill: Observations…’ Where to start? Hmm. ‘Reluctance to comply with my written instructions I believe, on reflection, to have been a one-off as obedience to vocal commands was prompt. No previous anal experience, as expected, yet took a medium plug with minimal fuss. Arousal by humiliation also confirmed…’ _Oh, the look on his face when I told him to wank himself off._ ‘General deportment is, unsurprisingly, graceful. On the whole, novice sub shows potential, but it’s early days yet. Training to proceed as outlined earlier. Stop.’

Feeling much calmer, I read through the file again, making one or two extra comments in the margins for clarification. There. That’ll do for now. The ink’s barely dry, but I stuff the parchments and quill back in the drawer regardless. It’s getting late, and I’m starting to feel hungry. A quick trip to the bedroom and Mistress Roxanne is back in the wardrobe, leaving Hermione Granger to hurriedly wipe off her greasepaint and throw on some comfy clothes. Wards checked one last time, and with everything in order, I gratefully Disapparate for home.

~ * ~ 

‘I’m so, so sorry, Hermione.’ Harry looks as helpless as I feel. ‘I didn’t want you to find out like this. Wanted to tell you myself.’

The headline on the front page of the _Evening Prophet_ screams ‘Notorious Death Eater Released Early from Azkaban’, accompanied by a photograph of a thinner, older-looking, Lucius Malfoy.

‘How did he manage to worm his way out of this one?’

Harry shrugs. ‘He was eligible to apply for parole.’

'That didn’t mean it had to be granted.’ I can only wonder who he bribed, blackmailed or Imperius’d to regain his freedom. ‘He’s a psychopath. He should have been banged up for life!’

‘He has friends in high places, still,’ says Harry. ‘And, unfortunately, the Wizengamot chose to believe that Bellatrix Lestrange had him under the Imperius Curse all along.’ He pushes his hair off his forehead and sighs. ‘And I know what you’re thinking—Don’t think I haven’t been on the look-out for anything dodgy because I have. If I could pin something on him—something that would stick—I would, believe me.’

‘I don’t doubt it. But why didn’t anyone think to ask me? Doesn’t my evidence count for anything?’ 

There’s nothing Harry can say to that. Shaking my head, I stare at the photo again, willing for it not to be real. ‘Looks strange with short hair, doesn’t he? Almost didn’t recognise him.’ That’s a lie of course; I’d recognise those eyes anywhere. And it doesn’t fool Harry for a minute. ‘Oh, for Merlin’s sake, don’t look so distraught. It’s not like you didn’t warn me this was going to happen.’ I just didn’t expect it to be quite so soon.

Harry places a hand on my shoulder, and for once I don’t flinch or feel the urge to shake it off. ‘What hasn’t been made public are the conditions of his release,’ he says gently. 

I tear my gaze away from the paper, frowning. ‘Which are?’

‘Well, for a start, he’s not allowed within a mile radius of this house—’

‘He knows where I _LIVE!_ ’ 

Harry winces at my high-pitched shriek, but I don’t particularly care. ‘Please tell me there’s at least a magical tag on him.’

‘It’ll be okay, honest,’ he says, taking me by both shoulders. ‘I won’t let him harm you.’

‘No tag, then?’

Harry sighs. ‘Look, we can put the cottage under the Fidelius in no time at all. I’ll be your Secret Keeper again, no problem.’

‘No.’ The vehemence of my refusal surprises even me. God knows Harry looks shocked. Malfoy may be the Big Bad Wolf, but he can huff and puff ’til he’s blue in the face. He’s not going to blow my house down. Not this time. ‘I refuse to let him do that to me—put me in isolation again. This is my home. I’m comfortable here, and I’m not going to turn it into some kind of a-a bunker because of Lucius fucking Malfoy!’

‘Hermione, love. You’re trembling.’ He glances over his shoulder at the wine rack, letting his hands fall. ‘I think we could both do with a drink.’

My hands are indeed shaking, but I take a deep, calming breath. ‘Go ahead. Use the glasses from the cupboard above the washing machine.’

Harry examines some of the labels, then shrugs before grabbing one from the top at random. He’s never had any pretensions of being a wine buff, bless him. ‘This okay?’

My best bottle of Chateau d’Yquem, but what the hell. ‘Fine. Just make sure it’s well chilled.’ While he struggles manfully with the corkscrew, I force myself to read the rest of the article: _When questioned as to what the future held, Mr Malfoy replied, “My only plans are to go home with my family, recuperate from my ordeal and become acquainted with my grandson and daughter-in-law. That is all.”_ Yeah, right.

‘Here you go,’ says Harry, handing me the wine glass. He takes a sip from his own and wrinkles up his nose. ‘Bit sweet for me.’

‘Then don’t drink it.’ Rolling my eyes at him, I swirl the wine around in the glass. ‘So… What other terms should I be aware of?’ I inhale the wonderful aroma and take a sip. It tastes like nectar.

‘Well, he’s under curfew between eight in the night and eight in the morning—and has to report to his parole officer twice a week…’

I’m sure he’ll love that. ‘O-kay…’

‘He’s not allowed to leave the country at all or venture outside wizarding Britain without permission—’

‘So, there’s a good chance I could bump into him, then, should I venture out into Diagon Alley?’ I feign interest in my wineglass. 

‘He's not to approach you or make contact with you in any way, including Owl Post,’ Harry continues, putting his glass down and taking me by the shoulders again. ‘And if he is stupid enough to try anything, I’ll escort him back to Azkaban personally. Just-just kick him in the knackers and send your Patronus. You’ll have me and a team of Aurors at you side in seconds.’

Somehow, I doubt I’d have seconds if Lucius Malfoy decided to take his revenge on me, even with a few Muggle self-defence moves up my sleeve, but I nod and try to smile.

Harry pulls me into a hug. ‘You know you can always come and stay with us, don’t you? For as long as you like? There’s plenty of room. Throw a few things into a bag now, if you want.’

‘I know, and don’t think I’m not grateful, but… I’d have to come back here, eventually, and I….’ Pushing him off, I consign the _Prophet_ and Lucius Malfoy to the bin. ‘Thanks for the offer, though.’

‘Well, then…’ Harry glances towards the door to the living room and smiles apologetically. ‘I said I’d be back for the kids’ bedtimes.’

‘Then you should be at home.’ I give him an encouraging shove. ‘You know where the Floo powder is, and yes, I’ve cleaned the soot out of the chimney. Now, shoo.’

‘Yes, miss,’ Harry says with a grin as he turns and makes his way to the fireplace with me in tow. ‘I’ll go quietly. Just don’t hit me with the tea towel again, a’right?’ His hand reaches for the bowl of powder then hesitates. ‘But seriously, you call me, OK? Any time. I mean it.’

‘I will. Now, off you go. Give my love to Ginny.’

He nods as he takes a scoop of powder and tosses it into the fire.‘ Make sure you do. _Number 12 Grimmauld Place!’_ And he’s gone in a whirl of green.

The house returns to its customary silence as the flames revert to their normal colour, my solitude hitting home like a knife to the heart, but I vow to myself that, after all the progress I’ve made, I am not going to retreat. No going backwards, Hermione. I am stronger now. Much stronger. I can cope with this. I have to—

With impeccable timing, Crookshanks appears from behind the sofa with an ‘any-chance-of-dinner?’ miaow, scaring me half to death. 

‘Don’t _do_ that.’ 

He pauses mid-step and turns his head to regard me, looking anything but contrite.

‘Sorry, Crooks, I didn’t mean to shout. You’d think I’d be used to it by now, wouldn’t you? Fear, that is—seeing that I spent the majority of my schooldays scared shitless and wondering if I’d make it to my eighteenth birthday. I managed to convince myself back then that it would all be worth it one day, you see, because we were on the side of the Light, and that we’d win. Eventually.’ With a sigh, I flick my wand at a stray cinder that’s managed to escape and turn to extinguish the fire. ‘And there was a time I was naive enough to believe we’d done just that. Vanquished evil for ever. How dumb was I? We may as well have been trying to kill the Hydra—blithely chopping off heads only to watch two growing back in their place. It’ll never give up, you know. Evil. There will always be nasty, vicious men, and women, in the world only too eager to do its bidding.'

‘MI-aaow?’

‘I know. And you don’t particularly care.’ And I really must resist this urge to wax lyrical to my cat, intelligent though he undoubtedly is. I bend down to give him a quick scratch as he winds around my legs. ‘Come on, Furball. It’s high time we both had something to eat.’

On our way back to the kitchen, the thought occurs to me that I haven’t cast a Patronus in a very long time and wonder whether I still can or even if it might have changed. Well, there’s only one way to find out…

_Expecto Patronum!_

A wisp of white smoke drifts from my wand, forming an elongated blob which may or may not be an otter, before fading from sight.

I suppose that answers that question.

~ * * * ~ 


	12. Reflections: Severus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reflections after the event.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual disclaimers apply.
> 
> Many thanks to curly_queue for the beta.

_Uh?… Light? What in Mer—?_ It takes my sleep-fogged brain a full second to recall which bed I’m currently occupying and a few more to realise I have slept until daybreak, as attested by the gap in the green velvet curtains. I cannot remember the last time that happened. Must be years, decades even. And…

_Yesterday_.

I lie, unmoving, in that brief moment of uncertainty between sleep and wakefulness, afraid I may have dreamt it all. But, no. My nerve endings tell me otherwise, the dull ache of bruised skin and strained muscles being unmistakable. I flex my back experimentally before carefully—not to mention a bit cautiously—rolling onto my side. Still a bit stiff and sore, but not as bad as last night when I awoke, freezing, on the floor. The memory of the flogging she… _Mistress_ … dealt out may be fading from my body, but one thing is growing progressively uncomfortable. That damned plug. It’s shifted while I slept, started to work its way out, and my arse is _burning_. 

Reaching behind, I touch the unnatural object, both repelled and fascinated by the sensations it evokes, and my morning hard-on takes note in spite of the discomfort. Enough of that or I’ll never get through the day, never mind the week. Whatever lubrication she… _Mistress_ … used, however, has long since dried up, and I am reluctant to attempt to insert the thing further. I know that my instructions for its removal were quite explicit, but technically, I have not _actually_ done anything—and it may be a while before I do need to remove it, on account of my, er… _preparations_ before the session, though a good fart would probably eject it—so I don’t see why I should risk any more damage to my already sore rectum by shoving it back in.

Getting up without sitting on the edge of the bed takes some doing, but I manage to scramble sideways to my feet and haul my aching carcass to the bathroom without further problems.

~ * ~ 

‘Has the Dark Lord risen again?’ the sarcastic voice of Hector, my mother’s bathroom mirror, greets me as I pull the chain and turn to peer at my morning visage.

‘No. And it is, or rather was, “Voldemort”.’ Believe me, if I could unravel whatever fiendish Sticking Charm Mother used to pin him to the wall, I’d have chucked him in the cut long ago.

‘You look like shit.’

He’s quite right for once, actually. My eyes are puffy, my nose is red, and I feel a bit thick-headed, to be honest. Could be a cold coming on, and typically, I didn’t bother to pack any Pepperup to bring home with me. ‘Looks can be deceptive, Hector. Now, shut up and show me my back. Full length.’

Ahh… It would seem Mistress saw fit to bestow a cross-hatched pattern on my buttocks. How—

‘What the fuck is _that?_

‘ _That_ is none of… none of your… a- _tchoo_ fuck, business.’

Well, that’s the plug taken care of.

The silence is deafening as I bend to pick it up off the floor, gingerly holding the end between my thumb and forefinger. Hector, it seems, has lost the power of speech. 

It’s the first object of this nature I’ve ever seen close up. White, made of some sort of plastic… hmm… a lot smaller than I imagined, too. And… there appears to be some sort of writing on it. How odd. I hold it up to the light to examine it more closely, twisting it around to read the tiny letters spiralling along its length…

_~sub-severus~_

_~Property of_

_Mistress Roxanne~_

 

‘Gods’… The plug clatters around the washbasin as it slips from my grasp. My Mistress’ property…. I know it’s referring to the plug, of course, but I can’t help imagining… No, no. I cannot dwell on that. Even so, she has entrusted me with something of hers—something, it would appear, for my personal use—something which could almost _almost_ be considered a… gift. Precious. But I was wilfully disobedient, and she was justifiably displeased, so why has she entrusted it to my keeping? 

_Property of Mistress Roxanne…_. 

If only… With a long sigh, I open the hot tap and let the water run. While part of me is most definitely not looking forward to wearing the plug again, a very sore part of my anatomy has started tingling in anticipating for the moment when I will once more feel its pressure. But before I do that, I must attend to the practical side of things: Mistress’ property needs to be cleansed, if not sanitised, before attempting reinsertion. A good soak, I think, is in order—warming it up first should be less of a shock to the system, anyway—followed by a Scourgify to be on the safe side. But what about lubrication? Mistress didn’t mention that. Am I allowed it? Surely I must be?

‘What have you got yourself involved in this time, you steaming great ponce?’

‘Why, Hector. You sound almost conce—' Without consulting me, Hector has reverted to front view. Full-frontal view. It’s my turn to be dumbstruck. Ye gods! I look like a plucked chicken. My cock looks several deeper shades of pink than normal, if that’s possible, without its habitual nest of pubic hair, and the least said about my old scrotum, unleashed on the world in all its wrinkly glory for the first time since puberty, the better. Worst of all, instead of there being a pallidly white groin to match the rest of my body, a nasty red-spotted, pimply sight greets my eyes: the onset of razor rash breaking out on my nether regions. Any sense of optimism I may have awoken with instantly vanishes.

I look fucking ghastly.

_Worthless…_

The horror of it sends me reeling backward; my knees smack into the loo, and I sit down hard enough to make me wince. Merlin, I can’t go back to her looking like this: I couldn’t stand the embarrassment. It was bad enough before. God knows I wouldn’t want to look at-at _that_ even if I was being paid to do it. And—oh, fuck it. My nose starts running uncontrollably, and I grab a handful of toilet paper and bury my face in it, feeling like a complete and utter wanker. Talk about pride coming before a fall. No wonder she was laughing her arse off— Oh, Merlin, what a twat. Here I’ve been, busy congratulating myself for my abominable behaviour when I should have been thanking all the stars in the firmament that I wasn’t permanently tossed out with the rest of her unwanted rubbish. 

What was I thinking? What the _fuck_ was I thinking?

_Fuck, fuck, fuck. At-choo. FUCK!_

Sniff.

And yet… And yet in spite of me goading her, taking liberties, in spite of _everything_ , she _Mistress_ decided to give me another chance…

_And a butt plug with my name on it._

Why? Why would she do that?

Sniff…

Slowly, I rise to my feet as if pulled by some magnetic attraction, throwing the paper behind me. I keep my eyes down as I approach the washbasin, ignoring Hector’s taunts and insults, and scoop Mistress’ plug out of the water. 

Hmm… Would a good submissive be second-guessing his Mistress’ motives, I wonder? I don’t think so somehow. Neither is it my place, I’m sure, to speculate on why Mistress tolerated my insolence; it is enough that she did. And this … _this_ belongs to my Mistress, and I should feel honoured to have been entrusted with it.. 

_… you are to wear that plug day and night…_

And I will. Maybe not gladly, but respectfully. However, I’m not going to insert it here, not with Hector watching. No, I shall do it in the privacy of my bedroom, in peace. 

Without an audience.

~ * ~ 

Kneeling on the bedroom rug, I flick though Mistress Roxanne’s sheafs of parchments, hoping to find some hints on how I should proceed, to no avail. Ah, well. It would appear that I shall have to improvise:

‘ _Accio_ Olive Oil!’

The bottle comes flying up the stairs at my command, followed a few seconds later by the small bowl I summoned as an afterthought. My hands have become so clammy, I almost drop them, but the plug is soon soaking in an oily bath while I rummage through my carpet bag for the bruise and skin soothing salve that, unlike the Pepperup, I had the foresight to bring with me.

Now, where’s it hiding…. ? Ah, there you are. A familiar smell rises out of the pot as I unscrew the lid—mmm, yes, the bitter scent of misspent youth and indescribable agony, times I’d rather forget. But despite the negative associations, it’s still the most effective balm for all sorts of cuts and bruises, minor as well as major, and practicality wins over mawkish sentimentality where pain is concerned. Without further ado, I dip my fingers into the greasy ointment and remove a generous dollop. The itching and redness on my groin and bollocks fade away almost instantaneously as I slather it around my cock and under my scrotum. Gods… what a relief. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, composing myself a moment before dipping my fingers in the salve once more. The memory of those other, leather-clad, fingers comes back to me:

_Lean forward and spread your buttocks…_

‘Yes, Mistress.’ Oh, if only she were here now, telling me what to do. I close my eyes and imagine just that, bowing my head until it touches the floor, wishing it were Mistress’ fingers smearing the grease around my sore ring-piece instead of my own. Tentatively, I ease two fingers inside. Like before, the stinging fades away on contact, and I relax as the dulling, analgesic effect, allows them to ease further in. I hope this can’t be construed as cheating. Perhaps the soreness was part of my punishment? Too late to worry about that now, though. I hold my fingers apart a little in preparation, taking a perverse pleasure in the unfamiliar stretch and then, unable to think of an excuse to put it off any longer, I retrieve the plug from the bowl. 

It’s as hard and unyielding as before, but I manage to work the tip in without much difficulty. The warm oil is a big improvement on the cold lube, I must say. Much more pleasant. I twist it experimentally and try to push it in further, gritting my teeth against the resistance I meet, then pull it out slightly and try again. Not letting up the pressure this time, I push until I feel the impossible stretch of the widest part, then my muscles seem to clamp down on it and pull it almost all the way in. Just once more and… Oh, Merlin, I’m going to sneeze.

‘Ah-ah- CHOO.’

Thank God I have the presence of mind to keep my hand on the plug. I don’t want to have to go through that again so soon, though I hope it will become easier with practice. Feeling quite shivery now, I Summon a handkerchief to wipe my nose, which is tender and sore to the touch and no doubt getting redder by the minute. Oh, well, so much for having a quiet day in naked contemplation as I’d planned.

Buggering bollocks. I can’t spend the week like this! I’m going to have to make a trip to the apothecary’s.

~ * ~ 

My hand hovers automatically over my wand pocket as I duck out of the Floo and into the bar of the Leaky Cauldron. Old habits die hard. Brushing the inevitable soot off, I glance about me surreptitiously. It’s early yet: too soon for any but the most hardened drinkers and usual old reprobates to have put in an appearance. But whatever the time of day, the smell in here is always the same: stale beer, pipe tobacco and something musty and damp seeping from the walls. I’d recognise it blindfold. Riding over the top of it, however, I can detect, even with my blocked nose, a waft of something meaty emanating from the kitchen. Having missed breakfast, my stomach rumbles in hope.

‘Mornin’ Sev’rus.’ Tom pauses briefly from stacking the tankards behind him to greet me. ‘Long time no see.’

‘Just passing through,’ I reply, nodding towards the back door. Tom is perfectly aware that I rarely engage in idle conversation, but this has never deterred him from trying in the past. Indeed, I believe he sees it as some sort of challenge.

‘Well then, perhaps I can tempt you back after you’ve conducted your, er… business,’ Tom says cheerfully. ‘Steak and ale pie’s on for lunch.’

That would account for the aroma. Hmm... 

Tom notices my hesitation. ‘I can keep a seat for you in the Snug, if you like.’

Another, more insistent, growl from my stomach makes up my mind for me. ‘That would be… acceptable. Now—'

‘Chips or mash?’

‘Mash. Please.’ I make a move towards the exit before he can come up with any more asinine questions.

‘You a’ right, mate?’

I halt in my tracks and sigh. ‘I thought it would be blatantly obvious that I have a cold.’

‘Not that. I meant…You’re walking a bit funny, like.’

‘I am perfectly well, thank you.’ I draw myself up to my full height and clench my buttocks tightly together. ‘Now, if there’s nothing further.’ I almost pull the door off its hinges in my haste to leave, only to see the entrance to Diagon Alley starting to close up.

‘Hold the bricks!’

‘Hey, Severus. Have you heard the news about—?'

Whatever else he was about to say is lost in the clatter of the wall sliding back into place behind me.

~ * ~ 

Great. _Fucking_ great.

Hovering just inside the door, a notice in the form of a bubbling cauldron is puffing out the words, ‘BACK IN 10 MINS’.

More likely thirty, if past experience is anything to go by. With a sigh, I shrug up the collar of my cloak, turn on my heel and set off at a leisurely pace up Diagon Alley—or as leisurely as Mistress’ gift will allow it at any rate—feeling quite irate at this unexpected delay. I’ve never been one for aimless wandering or shopping for the sake of it, and am somewhat aggrieved at the waste of my time and energy. The stares and whispers from some of the passers-by does little to improve my mood, either, but they are easy enough to ignore by pretending to be interested in the contents of the shop windows.

A few doors up from the apothecary’s, a new ‘Chocolatiers’ arrests my progress and gives me the opportunity to relax my posture for a moment. Despite my aversion to window shopping, I am rather partial to a dark truffle or two, and their display—a riot of boxes and chocolates in all shapes, sizes and colours—would make all but the most ascetic of monk’s mouth water.

_Mmm…vanilla and sea salt…or maybe… Elderberry and peppercorn?_

I shall give it some consideration…

‘Cor, what a beauty!’

‘She is, in’ she.’

‘Jus’ like Harry Potter’s!’

At the mention of the ‘P’ word, my head jerks reflexively towards the sound. Outside the Owl Emporium, a half a dozen or so boys are staring, transfixed, at something inside. Not all that curious but with nothing better to do, I amble towards them. One of their number, however, happens to glance in my direction, nudging his friends as I approach, and predictably they all scarper across the road.

I stop to regard the bird that had so grabbed their attention. Ah, a Snowy. Truly beautiful—with an impressive price tag attached to its perch. The Harry Potter factor, no doubt. 

She flexes her talons and stares back at me imperiously. Ridiculous pet for a child. Why, when I came here for my Hogwarts’ supplies, my mother couldn’t afford so much as a toad—

But that was a long time ago. Now I could—but I already have an owl that serves me well. A second would be too great an extravagance, magnificent though she is … 

A reflection from somewhere high up across the road shimmers in the glass as a casement window rises up, and I feel my pulse start to quicken in sudden realisation. That might well be coming from Mistress’ residence! The entrance isn’t that far from here, after all. Could she be observing me at this very moment? 

_Don’t turn around._

My senses on full alert now, I search the window for further movement in the hope I might catch a glimpse of her. The chances are slim, I know, but that does little to quash the feeling… Ah, well. I can’t hang about here all day like some lovelorn fool.

Snowy hasn’t blinked once in all the time I’ve been standing here. Such a lovely creature. I do hope she finds an appropriate master or … Mistress…

For one wild, mad moment, I seriously consider buying the owl to give to Mistress as a present. But she would surely think I was insane, or worse, desperate. Although…. there may be merit in purchasing some sort of gift—some small token, by way of an apology, might be appreciated. Nothing as dramatic as an enormous white owl, though.

Chocolates perhaps? What woman doesn’t like chocolate?

Hmm…

With one last look at Snowy, I retrace my steps to the chocolatiers. Just as I’m about to cross the threshold, I spy a witch ushering some children into the apothecary’s and following closely behind. Open already? Well, that’s a turn-up for the books. I think the need to get rid of this damned cold and clear my head takes precedence over any other shopping. I’ll come back later, after lunch. I’ll be in a better frame of mind to choose then, anyway, once I’ve taken a dose of Pepperup and had something to eat.

~ * ~ 

‘Dawkins! For Merlin’s sake, watch the cooling charms on those Ashwinder eggs, will you.’

Old man Jigger is rushed off his feet and looking even more harassed than usual trying to serve several people at once while keeping a beady eye on his assistant. Two boys are running riot, prodding and poking at some of the shop’s more hazardous stock with no heed for safety or desire to preserve their fingers into adulthood. Their mother, I assume it’s their mother, appears oblivious. 

‘Get away from there, you stupid little—Ah, Professor Snape. So nice to see you. What can I get you?’

The witch gives me a filthy look. 

‘I believe this lady is before me, Mr Jigger, but I require some Pepperup if you have some to hand.’ I stare back at the witch and sniff pointedly.

'No problem, Professor,’ Jigger replies with something that could pass for a smile. ‘Dawkins! Mind the counter while I go downstairs. And you, Madam, can come back when you’ve civilised your brats, and they’re capable of keeping their grimy little paws off the merchandise.’

‘Well, I never—'

But Jigger has his wand out and is no mood for an argument. The witch gathers her brood and leaves in a swirl of robes and muttered curses.

‘Won’t take a moment, Professor,’ says Dawkins picking up a duster as his employer heads for the cellar. ‘New batch needs bottling, you see.’

With Dawkins busying himself to avoid having to actually talk to the customers, I glance about the premises, mentally going over the shelves in my Hogwarts store cupboard for any supplies that might be running low. But as always, my eyes return to the large container that Jigger has kept on the plinth behind the counter for as long as I can remember. It’s a show-off piece: a glass tube filled almost to the brim with Felix Felicius, left on permanent display to impress even hardened old cynics like me. Large drops of the golden liquid break the surface sporadically as I watch and then plop back in again. The effect is hypnotic, though twenty Galleons for a sixth of a gill is an exorbitant price to pay, even if the quality is as flawless as Mr Jigger would have his customers believe.

A few moments later, a breathless Mr Jigger appears again, clutching a standard, one-dose phial, which he duly passes to me.

‘Have this one… on me,’ he wheezes as I reach for my wallet. 

Well, I am one of his best customers so I suppose I’d do the same in his position. I nod my thanks, flip the cork and down the potion in one, grateful that there is now only a small audience to witness the smoke coming out of my ears. Placing the phial on the counter, I breathe through my nose for the first time today and feel the fog clearing.

‘Thank you again, Mr Jigger, and good day to you.’

Pie and mash in the Leaky has never seemed more appealing.

~ * ~ 

‘Pint of Wizard’s Finger, if you please, Tom.’

The Dumbledore look-alike on the beer clip raises a one-fingered salute as Tom pulls on the pump. ‘There you go,’ he says, placing the tankard before me. He nods in the direction of the fireplace. ‘I kept the settle by the fire for you. Maeve will be along with your order in a mo.’

‘Maeve?’

‘Yes,’ Tom replies, touching his finger to the side of his nose. ‘Best little cook I’ve had in years. Hogwarts’ loss is my gain.’

I decide not to rise to the bait and hand him a few Sickles. ‘May I?’ I ask, noticing today’s _Prophet_ folded neatly on the bar.

‘Yeah, it’s all yours. Full of the usual rubbish,’ he grumbles, ‘other than…’

But I’ve stopped listening as my world proceeds to crumble from beneath my feet.

~ * ~ 

_That’s something I haven’t felt in a long time…_ Like being cocooned in a woollen blanket, floating on air…

‘Is he all right, do you think?’

‘Headmaster Snape is needing food, Mister Tom.’

_Elf magic for sure. But here? How?_

A jolt of pain ricochets up my spine as my arse hits the bare wood of the settle. Not the most gentle of levitation spells, by any means. 

‘What happened?’

‘You, er… fainted, mate.’ Tom thrusts a glass at me. ‘Here. Drink this.’

The pungent aroma of Ogden’s best hitting my nostrils brings me back to my senses. I nod my thanks and knock it back.

‘You look like you needed that,’ Tom mutters. ‘On the house, by the way.’ He smiles, embarrassed, then returns to the bar, collecting glasses and tankards as he goes. ‘Kitchen, Maeve!’

I glance to my left to see a house-elf, fists dug into her hips, glowering at me. She looks vaguely familiar. ‘I know you. You’re…’

‘Headmaster Snape is to be eating Maeve’s pie right now!’

‘So… Maeve, eh?’

Hogwarts’ erstwhile second pastry-cook doesn’t bat an eye. ’New job, new name!’ she squeaks. ‘Now, eat.’

She watches as I pick up my fork and stab half-heartedly at the mashed potato before bringing it to my lips. ‘Up to your usual standard,’ I say, hoping to appease her so she’ll leave me alone, but no such luck. Despite Tom yelling that there are other customers in need of sustenance, Maeve remains unmoved until I’ve tackled some of the steak and gravy. ‘Satisfied?’

Apparently so, as she nods and leaves. I try to force down some more of the meat and potatoes, even though it tastes like dust, while I mentally struggle to make sense of what I’ve just read. I can’t believe that the Wizengamot could be so stupid as to—How could they? How could they let that monster out. Poor Draco. He was just starting to get back on his feet. And Miss Granger? What about Miss Granger? Gods, she must be in a terrible state. Will she even be able to continue? Have I lost my Mistress having only just found her?

I put down my knife and fork and push the plate away. That is not going to happen. Not if I have anything to do with it. Lucius is not going to ruin things for me this time…

Rising to my feet, I fish a Galleon out of my pocket to leave on the bar on my way out. I still have a gift to purchase for my Mistress—and I know now exactly what I’m going to get her.


End file.
